1 


JLIJLJ 


HARPER'S 

PORTRAIT  COLLECTION 

OF  SHORT  STORIES 


VOLUME    II 


Sir  John  and  the 
American  Girl 


by 
Lilian  Bell 

Author  of 

"  The  Expatriates  " 
"  The  Love  Affairs  of  an  Old  Maid  "  etc. 


New  York  and  London 

Harper  £r  Brothers  Publishers 
1901 


PS 


S5 


Copyright,  1901,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 


All  rights  reserved. 
June,  igoi. 


TO 

MY   BROTHER 
JAMES     EDWARD     BELL 

FIRST  LIEUTENANT  17TH  INFANTRY 
U.  S.  A.,  MANILA 


Contents 


PAGE 

SIR  JOHN  AND  THE  AMERICAN  GIRL  ....  3 

THE  PACIFIER  OF  PECOS 41 

WITH  MAMMA  AWAY 75 

THE  CHATTAHOOCHEE  WOMAN'S  CLUB    ...  95 

"YESSUM" Ill 

Miss  SCARBOROUGH'S  POINT  OF  VIEW    ...  151 

WITH  FEET  OF  CLAY 183 

THE  JUNIOR  PRIZE  AT  ST.  MARY'S     ....  219 

A  PIGEON-BLOOD  RUBY 245 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 


OW  that  we're  engaged/'  she  said, 
looking  up  at  him  with  a  smile  in 
her  eyes  which  he  never  had  seen 
before,  "let's  begin  at  the  begin 
ning  and  go  clear  back  to  the  time  when  we 
first  saw  each  other." 

"What's  the  good?"   he  said,   contentedly. 
"We're  engaged,  and  that's  the  end  of  it." 
"No,  that's  the  beginning  of  it." 
They  had  driven  to  the  citadel  to  see  the 
sun  set,  and  as  they  leaned  on  the  parapet  the 
whole  of  Cairo,  with   the  Pyramids   beyond, 
was  spread  before  them  like  a  panorama. 

"What  did  you  see  when  you  first  saw  me?" 
she  asked. 

"I   don't  know.     What  did  you  see  when 
you  first  saw  me?" 

"Well,    I'll   begin,    just   to   encourage   you. 
The  Augusta  Victoria  had  touched  at  Genoa, 
and  we  were  pretty  well  tired  of  each  other  by 
3 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

that  time  and  anxious  to  see  if  somebody  new 
and  interesting  and  handsome  wouldn't  come 
on  board." 

"But  nobody  of  that  sort  came!" 

"  Now  wait  a  minute !  Don't  interrupt !  And 
Mrs.  Richards  and  I  were  on  the  upper  deck, 
when  we  saw" — she  hesitated  and  closed  her 
eyes  dreamily — "when  we  saw  a  tall,  fair 
Englishman,  very  big,  very  broad,  very  much 
sunburned,  in  tweed  shooting-jacket  and  knick 
erbockers  and  rough  wool  stockings  and  golf 
shoes,  and  he  came  clumping  towards  us — " 

"Clumping?"  he  said. 

"Yes;  the  nails  in  your  shoes  made  you 
clump.  As  you  came  clumping  towards  us 
I  saw  that  that  white  thing  on  your  head  was 
a  Stanley  helmet,  and  I  saw  that  your  eyes 
were  near-sighted  and  light  blue,  except  when 
you  are  excited,  when  they  get  black,  and  there 
was  a  little  dent  in  your  nose,  which  only 
showed  when  one  looked  straight  at  you,  and 
didn't  interfere  with  your  profile,  and  that  your 
mouth  went  up  first  on  the  right  side  when 
you  laughed,  and  that  your  laugh  when  it  did 
ring  out  was  hearty  and  generous,  and  I  knew 
that  I  liked  you  from  the  very  first  instant." 

As  she  felt  his  hand  close  over  hers,  she 
opened  her  eyes  and  laughed. 

"Did  you  notice  all  that  of  me  at  first?" 
4 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

"All  that  and  more,"  she  said,  "for  I  saw 
your  servant  following  you  with  your  gun- 
case  and  your  polo  things  and  your  golf-sticks 
and  your  tennis-racket  and  The  Bath-Tub ;  so 
I  knew  that  you  were  English.  Now  tell  me 
what  you  noticed  first  about  me." 

"Well,  I  am,  as  you  say,  near-sighted  and 
I  didn't  notice  you  until  I  had  sent  my  servant 
down  to  put  my  things  away,  and  then,  I  think, 
I  must  have  lighted  a  cigar.  I  generally  do." 

"Yes,  you  did,"  she  said. 

"Well,  and  then  I  saw  you,  and  I  thought 
you  were  the  prettiest  girl  I  ever  had  seen,  and 
I  wanted  to  know  you,  and  that's  all." 

"Oh!  But  that  isn't  half  enough,"  she 
cried.  "Didn't  you  see  anything  at  all  about 
me?  Anything  specific,  I  mean?" 

He  stared  at  her  as  if  trying  to  recollect. 
"Yes,  I  saw  that  you  had  a  figure  as  straight 
and  slim  as  a  young  tree,  and  that  you  stood 
very  well,  and  that  your  hair  was  red." 

"Reddish!"  she  entreated. 

"No,  red!"  he  insisted.  "I  like  red  hair; 
and  that  your  eyes  were  every  color." 

"Hazel!"  she  cried,  pleadingly. 

"Every  color!"  he  reiterated.  "This  is 
my  story!  And  you  had  on  a  white  sailor 
hat  with  a  veil  tied  around  it." 

"A  black  veil,"  she  said,  complacently. 
5 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

"  And  I  saw  that  your  mouth  was  impertinent 
and  that  your  nose  was  saucy,  and  your  eyes 
laughed,  and  I  wanted  to  shake  you  or  kiss 
you — I  didn't  know  which — until  I  got  close 
to  you;  and  then  I  saw  that  your  hair  was 
blowing  around  your  face,  so  that  I  had  to 
put  my  hands  in  my  pockets  to  keep  from 
smoothing  it  back;  and  your  neck  above  your 
collar  was  as  white  as  milk,  and  there  were  two 
little  curls  at  the  back  which  mocked  my  cowar 
dice  at  being  afraid  to  walk  up  boldly  and  take 
you  in  my  arms  before  everybody,  and  they 
scold  me  prettily  even  yet  for  never  having 
dared  to  kiss  them." 

She  laughed  delightedly. 

"And  then?"  she  said,  eagerly. 

"Then  your  gown  was  so  smart  I  thought 
you  must  be  an  American,  and  when  the  wind 
blew  your  skirt  back  and  I  saw  your  little  slim 
feet  in  such  saucy  little  pointed  patent-leathers, 
then  I  knew  you  were!" 

"How  much  prettier  for  you  to  recognize  me 
by  my  feet  than  for  me  to  classify  you  by  your 
tub!  But  my  gown  wasn't  smart!"  she  pro 
tested.  "Just  a  cotton  shirt-waist  and  black 
skirt" 

"Not  too  much  so,"  he  hastened  to  say. 
"But  there  was — er — a — something  in  the  cut 
of  it — your  air — I  don't  know  how  to  tell  you, 
6 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

only  you  looked  different  to  the  English  girls 
I've  seen/' 

"Perhaps  you  mean  that  my  gown  hung 
evenly  around  the  bottom  and  that  my  skirt 
and  waist  were  congenial  in  the  back!"  she 
said,  slyly. 

"Congenial?" 

"  Yes.  Were  on  speaking  terms — met  frank 
ly,  without  attempting  to  dodge  acquaintance. 
The  waists  and  skirts  of  most  Englishwomen 
I  know  are  in  vendetta." 

"I  believe  after  all  that  it  was  you,  more 
than  your  frock,  which  made  you  smart  in  my 
eyes.  You  have  such  an  aristocratic  way  of 
holding  yourself.  You  ought  to  be  a  countess 
instead  of  my  sister-in-law.  It's  hard  to  be  a 
younger  son." 

"  Tell  me  about  your  family.  Will  they  like 
me?  What  will  people  call  me?" 

"You  will  be  the  Honorable  Mrs.  Archibald 
George  Kenneth  Cavendish,  and  I  think  you 
will  like  my  family  very  much,  and  I  know 
they  will  like  you.  My  sister-in-law  has  the 
name  of  being  a  bit  nasty,  but  she  won't  be 
likely  to  be  with  you,  because  you're  both  in 
the  same  box." 

"The  same  box?  How  do  you  mean?" 
asked  the  girl,  quickly. 

"Neither  of  you  is  dowried.  You  bring  no 
7 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

fortune.  That  makes  a  difference,  you  know. 
Of  course  not  with  me.  But,  as  I  told  you, 
we  shall  be  poor.  I  have  three  thousand  a 
year  of  my  own." 

"Dollars?" 

"No,  pounds.  We  can't  do  much  on  that, 
but  we'll  be  asked  to  Scotland  every  August 
by  Tessie,  and  now  and  then  to  their  town 
house  when  you  want  a  bit  of  London  in  the 
season;  and  for  the  rest  we  can  have  a  little 
house  in  the  country  or  travel,  just  as  you  like." 

The  girl  stood  with  her  elbows  on  the  para 
pet  looking  out  wistfully  at  the  Sphinx.  She 
supported  her  cheeks  in  her  palms,  and  made 
no  reply.  The  man  filled  his  pipe  and  went  on. 

"  If  they  take  to  you, — as  I  know  they  will, — 
you  are  so  different  to  them, — and  you  will 
amuse  them, — it's  very  likely  that  my  brother 
will  continue  my  allowance.  He  gives  me  an 
other  five  hundred  a  year,  but  as  he  isn't  obliged 
to,  he  could  stop  that  whenever  he  liked." 

"What  are  they  decorating  the  city  with  all 
those  little  red  flags  and  colored  lights  for?" 
she  asked,  suddenly. 

"Because  to-night  the  Khedive  goes  to  the 
Mosque  of  Mohammed  Ali  to  pray  for  his  heart's 
desire.  It's  a  great  night  for  every  Moham 
medan,  for  they  believe  that  every  prayer  is 
sure  to  be  granted." 

8 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

"Can  Protestants  go  and  pray  too?"  she 
asked.  ^ 

"Certainly;  would  you  like  to  come?  A 
year  ago,  if  I  had  been  in  Egypt,  I  would  have 
come  here  and  prayed  for  you ;  but  now  I  have 
my  heart's  desire." 

He  took  one  of  her  hands  in  his  and  held  it 
tightly. 

"I'd  like  to  come  and  pray  that  your  family 
will  love  me.  I  don't  want  them  to  like  me 
because  I  am  queer  and  foreign  and  because 
I  will  amuse  them!  I  want  to  feel  at  home  in 
England." 

"So  you  shall,  darling.  And  they  are  sure 
to  love  you  when  they  know  you.  It's  only 
your  little  ways  that  are  American.  I  love  you 
for  your  nobility  of  character." 

"And  you  put  up  with  my  'ways'?" 

"They  fascinate  me  as  completely  as  your 
frank  speech  and  your  lovely  face,"  he  said, 
gravely. 

She  moved  her  hand  in  his  with  a  purr  of 
content. 

"How  have  you  learned  anything  of  my 
character  in  this  short  time?"  she  questioned. 

"The  first  was  that  misunderstanding  about 

going   to  the  Coptic   church.     I   was  in  love 

with  your  face  then,  but  it  is  so  contradictory 

I  thought  you  might  be  capricious  or  careless, 

9 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

and  that  you  had  either  forgotten  or  ignored 
our  appointment.  I  was  waiting  for  you 
the  whole  morning  on  the  terrace  of  Shep- 
heard's,  and  you  were  waiting  in  your  sitting- 
room." 

"Why  didn't  you  hunt  me  up?  /  wouldn't 
have  waited  three  hours  and  then,  without  seek 
ing  any  explanation,  have  picked  up  my  things 
and  moved  to  another  hotel!" 

"I  was  too  much  in  love  and  too  miserable 
over  your  indifference  to  have  any  mind  left. 
I  wanted  to  go  away  where  I  couldn't  see  you 
to  be  tempted  further.  And  then,  just  as  I 
was  paying  my  bill,  you  came  running  out,  to 
find  your  courier,  with  a  note  in  your  hand; 
and  when  you  saw  me  with  my  receipted  bill, 
you  stopped  and  colored.  Then  your  face 
paled  a  little,  but  you  drew  yourself  up  and 
held  out  the  note  to  me  without  a  word.  Such 
a  square  thing  to  do!  It  made  me  see  what  a 
fool  I  had  been.  Most  girls  would  have  been 
too  chagrined  to  wrrite.  They  hate  to  feel 
thrown  over." 

"Thrown  over'!"  cried  the  girl,  laughing. 
"  I  never  thought  of  such  a  thing.  Mrs.  Richards 
said  it  was  indelicate  to  write  and  explain  and 
ask  if  you  had  misunderstood  me,  but  /  thought 
it  was  only  fair  to  allow  you  to  put  yourself 
right  with  me." 

10 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

The  Englishman  looked  at  her  curiously. 

"Edith/'  he  said,  "are  all  American  young 
women  as  haughty  as  you  are?" 

"Haughty?     Why,  /  am  not  haughty." 

"Yes,  you  are.  I  rather  like  it  when  you 
don't  practise  it  against  me.  I  would  like  a 
little  submissiveness  in  a  wife." 

"It  depends  upon  the  way  you  manage  me. 
Anything  I  do  for  you  in  love  is  not  submis 
sion.  I'd  fetch  and  carry  for  you  like  a  slave 
if  you  were  ill  or  helpless,  but,  in  my  opinion, 
you  are  a  little  too  lordly  sometimes,  and  it 
makes  me  fret." 

"Would  an  American  husband  suit  you 
better,  do  you  think?"  he  asked. 

"No,  dear!  If  I  had  wanted  an  American 
husband,  I  could  have  had  three  or  four  quite 
nice  ones.  The  trouble  is — " 

"'The  trouble  is'?"  he  repeated,  anxiously. 

"That  I  fell  in  love  with  you!  No;  wait  a 
minute!  And  I  rather  like  your  thinking 
that  just  because  you  are  an  Englishman  you 
are  a  little  better  than  any  other  man  in  the 
world." 

"I  don't  believe  I  think  that,"  he  said,  slowly. 

"Yes,  you  do!  Deep  down  in  your  soul  you 
do  believe  it.  The  only  thing  is,  I  don't  quite 
like  your  thinking  that — " 

"What?" 

II 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

"That  you're  superior  to  all  women,  too!" 

"  Oh,  my  dear  girl,  I  don't  think  that,  I  assure 
you!" 

"Then  why  do  you  always  enter  a  room 
before  me,  and  why  do  you  never  offer  to  carry 
my  jacket?" 

"Bad  manners,  I  suppose." 

He  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then,  meeting 
the  challenge  in  the  girl's  sparkling  eyes,  he 
added : 

"Well,  I  own  that  I  don't  like  to  make  a 
donkey  of  myself  to  pamper  a  woman!" 

"You  always  take  the  easiest  chair,  and 
help  yourself  first  at  the  table." 

He  released  her  hand  and  turned  away. 
She  thought  she  had  offended  him,  but  present 
ly  he  faced  her  again,  and,  laying  his  hands 
on  her  two  shoulders,  he  said : 

"And  those  things  worry  you,  don't  they, 
little  woman?  Well,  I'll  try  to  change  and 
do  your  way,  if  you  will  help  me.  I  must  make 
you  happy,  if  I  take  you  away  from  all  your 
people  into  a  land  of  strangers." 

"  What  a  darling  you  are,  Archie  dear!  Now 
tell  me,  is  there  anything  that  I  do  that  you 
would  rather  I  wouldn't?  Am  I  too  free  in  my 
manner  or  my  speech?" 

"  Not  a  bit.     You're  perfect ! " 

"You  are  sure  you  didn't  mind  this  morning 
12 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

when  that  little  Arab  ran  beside  me  and  said 
'Have  a  donkey,  lady?'  and  I  said  'Thanks, 
I  have  one'?" 

Cavendish  laughed  outright. 

"  No,  a  thousand  times,  no !  I  told  it  at  lunch 
eon  to  Sir  John,  and  he  laughed." 

"  Because  I'd  like  to  please  you  too,  you  know, 
dear.  Take  your  hands  down  quick  and  don't 
turn  around.  Some  people  are  coming  up  be 
hind  you!" 

The  sunsets  in  Cairo  are  something  to  close 
the  eyes  and  dream  about  in  old  age. 

The  splendid  sun,  blazing  in  a  many-colored 
radiance  which  shoots  up  into  the  brilliant 
copper  sky,  halts  for  a  moment  on  the  horizon, 
as  if  to  gather  all  his  luminous  splendor  about 
him,  and  flashes  his  lustre  over  the  dull  brown 
landscape,  gilded  into  sudden  beauty  by  his 
parting  beams;  and  then  with  a  glorious  sigh, 
like  the  God  of  Fire  sinking  to  his  rest  in  a  bed 
of  flame,  he  dips  behind  the  umber  sand-hills 
and  a  few  moments  of  tremulous  opalescent 
twilight  are  all  that  intervene  between  day  and 
night  in  the  land  of  Egypt. 

When  the  last  of  the  translucent  aftermath 
had  faded  from  the  sky,  the  two  lovers  in  the 
citadel  gave  a  sigh  to  remember  that  when  they 
came  back  to  the  mosque  that  night  they  would 
have  Edith's  chaperon,  the  redoubtable  Mrs. 
13 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

Richards,  with  them.  They  spent  most  of 
their  time  trying  to  rid  themselves  of  her  in 
cubus,  but  as  she  was  a  sensitive  creature  who 
sulked  if  she  was  neglected  she  generally  made 
an  unwelcome  third  in  all  their  little  diver 
sions. 

Cavendish  had  his  Arab  fetch  two  camp- 
stools  from  the  hotel  and  these  he  placed  near 
the  entrance  of  the  mosque.  The  crowd  jostled 
them  severely,  but  being  an  Englishman  he 
found  it  convenient  to  remain  where  he  had 
stationed  himself.  Mrs.  Richards  stood  on  the 
first  stool  and  Miss  Joyce  back  of  her  where 
Cavendish  could  touch  her  hand  in  the  crowd 
and  no  one  could  see.  Presently  the  young 
Khedive  arrived  followed  by  his  suite  and  body 
guard  of  cavalry.  The  men  all  removed  their 
shoes,  and  the  couriers  fastened  large  matting 
sandals  to  the  women's  shoes,  lest  a  profane 
foot  tread  those  sacred  stones. 

"The  Heart's  Desire!"  whispered  Edith  as 
they  all  knelt.  "I'm  really  going  to  pray, 
Archie.  I  have  a  horrible  feeling  that  Sir  John 
and  Lady  Chartersea  don't  wrant  you  to  marry 
me." 

"They  wanted  my  brother  to  marry  their 
sister,  but  they  don't  care  whom  a  younger  son 
marries." 

"  Then  why  has  Lady  Chartersea  not  spoken 
14 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

to  me  about  our  engagement  since  you  told 
her?" 

"I  don't  know/'  he  said,  reddening. 

The  girl  said  no  more,  but  knelt  quietly  on 
her  mat  of  rushes.  Suddenly  he  felt  that  she 
was  trembling,  and,  glancing  beyond  her,  he 
saw  Lady  Chartersea  with  her  courier. 

Lady  Chartersea  nodded  to  him,  but  made  no 
effort  to  speak  to  Mrs.  Richards  or  Miss  Joyce. 

"I  am  tired,"  the  girl  whispered  in  his  ear. 
"Let  us  go  before  the  dervishes  begin." 

"Did  Lady  Chartersea  speak  to  you,  Edith?" 
demanded  Mrs.  Richards,  with  a  glance  of 
condemnation  for  Cavendish. 

"No,"  she  answered,  quietly. 

"Englishwomen  are  so  rude,"  said  Mrs. 
Richards,  severely.  "But  then,"  she  added, 
as  if  amply  avenged,  "  did  you  ever  see  such  a 
bonnet?" 

Cavendish  tucked  Edith's  hand  under  his 
arm  and  hurried  her  on  ahead.  He  was  re 
lieved  to  see  that  Edith  had  been  oblivious  to 
the  slight.  If  ever  she  began  to  notice  it  serious 
ly,  he  meant  to  have  a  talk  with  Lady  Char 
tersea.  When  his  mother  and  sisters  quarrelled, 
or  when  Tessie  nagged  Mayhew,  he  told  Edith 
he  always  cut  for  cover.  Then  he  playfully 
asked  her  if  she  ever  had  "the  vapors,"  and 
if  the  color  of  her  hair  denoted  a  quick  temper. 
15 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

These  things  were  in  the  girl's  mind  as  they 
drove  home  in  the  luminous  darkness  of  the 
soft  Egyptian  night.  If  her  lover  had  been  of 
her  own  nation  she  would  have  poured  out  her 
heart  to  him  in  full  expectation  of  receiving 
sympathy  and  redress.  But  fear  of  not  coming 
up  to  an  Englishman's  ideal  of  what  a  woman 
should  be  kept  her  silent.  So  the  hurt  remained 
and  rankled.  She  had  spoken  to  Cavendish 
once,  she  reflected,  proudly,  and  afterwards  he 
had  seen  Lady  Chartersea  prove  her  accusation 
to  be  true.  She  would  leave  the  issue  in  his 
hands  and  see  how  he  would  proceed. 

What  the  man  did  was  to  give  a  sigh  of  re 
lief  that  no  explosion  had  occurred  and  to  do 
nothing. 

The  next  day  Lady  Chartersea  wrote  to  the 
Dowager  Countess  of  Mayhew,  Cavendish's 
mother,  and  said: 

"I  congratulate  you  on  your  new  daughter- 
in-law.  She  is  very  beautiful  in  the  American 
style,  and  will  outshine  both  your  girls  and 
my  poor  sister,  I  am  sorry  to  say.  But  then 
she  is  very  cheerful,  and  will  be  a  charming 
companion  for  you.  She  quizzes  everybody 
and  wears  very  smart  clothes,  admires  Glad 
stone,  and  calls  the  Queen  'Victoria/  All  this 
amuses  Sir  John,  who  votes  her  sayings  vastly 
clever.  It  is  rather  a  pity  that  she  brings  no 
16 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

fortune,  for  Archie  needs  it,  poor  boy.  How 
ever,  I  know  that  you  are  not  mercenary,  or 
you  never  would  have  welcomed  Tessie  into 
the  family  as  you  did.  Dear  Tessie's  con 
nections  are  worth  more  than  money,  but  the 
American  has  beauty,  which  we  all  hope  you 
will  consider  an  equivalent.  She  is  prodigious 
ly  proud  and  sensitive,  so  do  write  her  a  sweet 
letter  of  welcome,  as  I  am  persuaded  that  she 
would  never  marry  Archie  if  his  family  ob 
jected. 

"  Sir  John  is  no  better.  He  has  not  left  his 
room  for  a  fortnight.  I  have  sent  for  my  brother, 
but  in  the  mean  time  we  take  all  of  Archie's 
time  which  we  can  beg  from  Miss  Joyce.  He 
is  very  good  to  us,  and  we  depend  upon  him  no 
end  for  the  journey  home  in  case  Robert  does 
not  arrive  in  time.  I  have  urged  Robert  to 
make  all  possible  haste,  as  Archie  would  like 
to  go  by  the  way  of  Greece  with  the  Americans 
instead  of  on  a  P.  &  0.  with  us  to  Venice,  as  he 
first  planned,  and  I  would  never  have  the  heart 
to  separate  him  from  his  love  even  for  a  few 
days." 

This  letter  put  the  dowager  into  a  purple 
rage.  A  person  who  admired  Gladstone,  and 
who  continually  chaffed  and  called  her  Majesty 
"Victoria"!  It  was  monstrous! 

She  read  the  letter  carefully  several  times, 
B  17 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

with  the  stiff  violet  satin  bows  on  her  cap  quiver 
ing  with  suppressed  excitement. 

She  said  nothing  to  her  daughters  for  two 
days,  but  on  the  third  day  an  idea  came  to  her, 
and  she  was  swift  to  act  upon  it.  She  smiled 
grimly  to  think  wrhat  an  unpleasant  affect 
Lady  Chartersea  had  produced  by  her  amiable 
letter,  which  was  so  evidently  written  by  Archie's 
request  to  obtain  fair  sailing  for  his  matri 
monial  bark. 

She  wrote  a  charming  letter  to  Archie,  send 
ing  him  a  check  for  twenty  pounds,  and  dilating 
on  the  goodness  of  the  Charterseas  to  her  dear 
husband  in  his  last  illness,  and  saying  that  she 
had  received  such  a  sad  letter  from  Lady  Char 
tersea,  worrying  at  being  obliged  to  ask  for 
so  much  of  a  young  man's  time  for  an  inva 
lid,  and  telling  him  reproachfully  that  Robert 
had  been  sent  for  to  take  Archie's  place.  "Is 
it  possible,"  wrote  the  do\vager,  "that  you  are 
neglecting  your  father's  old  friends?" 

Cavendish  was  touched  in  the  most  vulner 
able  spot  of  an  Englishman's  heart — loyalty. 
Full  of  remorse,  he  redoubled  his  attentions  to 
Sir  John,  and  as  a  result  Edith  Joyce  and  Mrs. 
Richards  went  alone  to  the  bazaars  and  mosques, 
whither  Cavendish  had  planned  to  accompany 
them. 

Cavendish  secretly  chafed  at  the  time  the 
18 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

Charterseas  demanded  of  him,  and  on  one 
bright  day  when  the  doctor  had  said  the  invalid 
might  drive  out,  Cavendish  hit  upon  the  plan 
of  asking  all  four  of  his  friends  to  drive  to 
Meenah  House  for  luncheon,  and  then,  while 
Sir  John  rested  for  the  return  drive,  he  promised 
the  three  ladies  a  camel-ride  to  the  foot  of  the 
Pyramids. 

Sir  John  accepted  with  such  alacrity  that 
his  wife  could  not  refuse.  The  doctor  agreed 
to  the  plan,  but  when  they  were  about  to  start, 
Sir  John  electrified  his  wife  by  asking  Miss 
Joyce  to  drive  with  him  in  the  victoria. 

"But,  my  dear/'  said  her  ladyship,  "Miss 
Joyce  can  never  be  comfortable  on  the  little 
seat!" 

"Certainly  not,"  said  Sir  John.  "I  mean 
her  to  sit  with  me." 

"And  leave  me  to  ride  backwards?"  cried 
his  wife. 

"  Again,  certainly  not.  You  go  in  the  other 
carriage  with  Mrs.  Richards  and  Archie." 

"But  I  need  the  air,"  protested  Lady  Char- 
tersea. 

"Then  let  down  the  windows!"  roared  Sir 
John.  "In  you  go  or  you'll  put  me  in  a  rage 
directly!" 

The  Englishwoman  obediently  scrambled  in, 
much  to  Mrs.  Richards's  gratification. 
19 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

"Suppose  we  let  them  go  ahead  and  I'll 
order  another  carriage,"  said  Cavendish,  in 
a  low  tone. 

"  No,  no !  Not  for  the  world.  It  would  make 
Sir  John  angry  no  end.  It  wasn't  so  much 
the  carriage  as  that  I  prefer  my  own  husband's 
society,"  said  Lady  Chartersea,  looking  direct 
ly  at  Mrs.  Richards. 

As  they  drove  out  of  Cairo  and  entered  that 
magnificent  avenue  lined  on  either  side  with 
giant  pepper-trees,  which  met  overhead  and 
produced  a  soothing  shade  from  the  glare  of 
the  Egyptian  sun,  the  three  in  the  closed  car 
riage  were  forced  to  hear  an  occasional  shout  of 
laughter  from  Sir  John,  which  spoke  volumes 
in  praise  of  Edith's  powers  of  entertainment. 

At  that  hour  in  the  morning  they  met  but 
few  English.  Only  those  from  Meenah  House, 
who  were  coming  into  Cairo  for  the  day.  But 
a  straggling,  majestic  procession  of  grain-laden 
camels,  who  slowly  turned  their  long  necks 
and  bent  their  sad-eyed  gaze  on  the  travellers, 
walked  solemnly  by  in  a  long  line,  interspersed 
now  and  then  with  drab  donkeys  with  jingling 
bells  and  switching  tails,  or  a  squad  of  Egyp 
tian  cavalry.  Arabs,  Egyptians,  fellaheen 
from  Sakkara,  even  an  occasional  Bisharin 
from  up  the  Nile,  vendors  of  turquoises  and 
crude  ostrich-feathers ;  merchants,  beggars,  and 

20 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

fakirs  of  all  sorts  whose  many-hued  raiment 
made  gay  spots  of  color  in  the  gently  shaded 
avenues — all  these  and  more  filed  by  the  two 
carriages,  while  over  all  was  ever  the  mysterious 
influence  of  the  Sphinx  and  the  charm  of  the 
sacred  river. 

Sir  John  arrived  at  Meenah  House  in  the 
best  of  spirits.  The  day  was  so  warm  that 
everybody  was  lunching  on  the  veranda. 

"Archie/'  cried  Sir  John,  when  he  had  swal 
lowed  his  soup,  "I  congratulate  you  on  this 
little  woman  of  yours.  You'll  never  have  an 
other  dull  day  after  you  marry  herl" 

"I  hope  you  haven't  over-excited  Sir  John, 
Miss  Joyce/'  said  her  ladyship,  transferring 
the  breast  of  the  fowl  from  her  own  plate  to  that 
of  her  husband. 

"Tell  me,"  he  said,  ignoring  his  wife's  re 
mark,  "are  those  people  at  the  next  table  Eng 
lish  or  Americans,  Miss  Joyce?" 

"  That  man  with  the  nine  women?    English!" 

"How  do  you  know?" 

Edith  glanced  inquiringly  at  Cavendish. 

"Shall  I  tell?  You  are  all  English.  You 
are  sure  you  won't  mind?" 

"Go  on!  Go  on!"  urged  Sir  John.  "Never 
mind  them,  /asked  you." 

"  Well,  they  are  English  because  no  American 
would  have  such  a  family  of  daughters,  and  if 
21 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

he  did  have  them,  he  wouldn't  travel  with  them 
all  at  once." 

"Eh!  what  do  you  mean?"  asked  her  lady 
ship.  "I  don't  see  anything  to  laugh  at,  Sir 
John." 

"And  they  are  middle  class/'  pursued  Edith, 
dimpling,  "because  when  that  Swedish  coun 
tess  passed  them  just  now,  the  fringe  of  her 
shawl  dragged  the  spoon  from  his  cup  and 
slopped  tea  on  his  duck  trousers,  and  although 
he  looked  apoplectic,  he  didn't  say  one  word. 
He  literally  stormed  at  a  poor  little  French 
woman  who  knocked  his  Times  down  ten  min 
utes  ago." 

Sir  John  insisted  on  following  them  in  the 
victoria  on  their  camel-ride,  and  of  being  photo 
graphed  in  their  group.  His  wife,  from  the 
back  of  the  tallest  camel,  regarded  the  American 
girl  with  secret  complacency. 

"Never  mind,  miss,"  she  was  saying  to 
herself;  "if  I  am  not  much  mistaken  you  will 
receive  a  letter  in  the  post  to-night  which  will 
rob  you  of  your  high  spirits." 

She  dug  her  heel  into  her  camel's  side  to 
place  him  a  little  more  in  the  foreground  when 
they  were  photographed,  but  the  majestic  beast 
was  unmoved.  The  only  result  was  a  British 
foot  very  much  in  evidence  when  the  plate  was 
developed,  and  that  the  American  girl  was 
22 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

caught  in  the  act  of  laughing  heartily,  thereby 
making  so  charming  a  picture  that  Sir  John 
ordered  a  dozen  for  himself,  when  he  saw  the 
proofs,  although  his  wife's  face  was  a  blur. 

That  night  Lady  Chartersea  purposely  re 
mained  close  to  the  post-office  window  at  Shep- 
heard's,  bargaining  with  the  Egyptian  whose 
booth  of  embroideries  and  carved  brass  was 
within  hearing  distance.  She  saw  the  American 
girl's  eager  face  as  her  eyes  scanned  the  super 
scription  of  her  home  letters,  and  she  saw  her 
color  change  at  the  sight  of  the  thick,  black- 
bordered  one  from  England  bearing  the  May  hew 
coat  of  arms. 

Lady  Chartersea  crumpled  her  brother's 
telegram  from  Alexandria,  saying  that  he  had 
arrived  and  would  come  by  the  morning  train, 
and  hurried  back  to  Sir  John,  who  was  un 
doubtedly  the  worse  for  the  excitement  of  the 
day.  In  great  alarm  she  sent  for  the  doctor 
and  Cavendish. 

Edith  went  into  her  own  room  and  locked  the 
door,  when  she  read  her  home  letters.  She  was 
always  seized  with  an  unaccountable  dread  for 
fear  they  contained  unpleasant  news.  Her 
hands  trembled  as  she  opened  the  English 
letter,  and  her  sensitive  face  reflected  every 
shadow  of  her  emotion  as  she  read  its  cruel 
lines. 

23 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

"I  dare  say  you  are  pretty,  my  good  girl," 
the  letter  ran,  "but  I  and  the  girls  have  other 
plans  for  our  dear  Archibald,  and  we  think  it 
best  that  you  should  break  the  engagement, 
as  very  likely  he  is  only  taken  by  your  face, 
because  he  could  not  possibly  have  learned 
your  character  in  so  short  a  time.  I  feel  sure 
that  you  would  not  care  to  force  yourself  into 
a  family  where  you  would  be  unwelcome,  and 
I  trust  to  your  delicacy  not  to  show  this  letter 
to  my  son." 

The  love  which  had  come  to  the  girl's  heart 
in  such  romantic  surroundings  she  had  never 
taken  very  seriously.  It  had  touched  her  lively 
imagination  and  she  had  been  nattered  by  the 
devotion  of  her  distinguished  English  lover. 
But  until  she  read  her  dismissal  from  his  family 
before  she  had  entered  it,  a  realization  of  her  own 
love  'for  Cavendish  had  never  came  home  to 
her. 

All  her  emotions  were  touched  at  once. 
Love,  pride,  anger,  a  fierce  resentment,  a  sus 
picion  of  the  depth  of  Archie's  love  and  fear  of 
how  much  he  would  dare  to  brave  his  family's 
displeasure,  and,  above  all,  a  frantic  wish  to 
hold  his  love  in  spite  of  everything.  All  his 
brave  qualities  stood  out  before  her  mind's 
eye.  He  was  a  man  worth  the  loving. 

A  timid  knock  at  the  door  gave  her  a  moment's 
24 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

calmness.  It  was  Mrs.  Richards,  sniffing  tear 
fully  with  homesickness  after  reading  her 
letters. 

"I  wonder  if  you  will  ever  be  ready  to  start 
home/'  she  said.  "  Egypt  has  no  such  fascina 
tion  for  me  as  it  has  for  you.  The  Gordons 
have  just  decided  to  stay  another  month  and 
go  up  the  Nile,  so  their  tickets  on  the  Khedivial 
to-morrow  are  for  sale.  I  wish  you  could  per 
suade  yourself  to  take  them  and  go  to  Athens 
.now." 

A  sudden  thought  struck  the  girl.  If  she 
took  those  tickets  and  left  suddenly,  she  could 
prove  Archie's  devotion  by  determining  whether 
he  would  disobey  his  mother's  commands  and 
go  with  her. 

She  sent  the  radiant  Mrs.  Richards  to  secure 
the  tickets,  and  despatched  a  note  to  Archie 
by  her  Arab  servant. 

He  was  so  long  in  coming  that  her  trunks 
were  packed  before  he  presented  himself  in  her 
sitting-room. 

"Going  to-morrow!"  he  cried  in  consternation 
when  she  told  him.  "Why,  whatever  shall 
I  do  without  you!" 

"There  is  another  ticket  still  to  be  had," 
she  said,  biting  her  lip  to  keep  back  the  tears. 

"Oh,  /  couldn't  go.  Sir  John  is  very  bad 
to-night,  and  we  haven't  had  a  word  from 
25 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

Robert.  I  rather  hoped  he  came  on  the  Russian 
steamer  which  brought  the  post." 

"  Why  need  you  be  so  devoted  to  a  friend  when 
/  need  you  elsewhere?"  she  cried,  suddenly. 

"You  don't  understand,  dear,"  he  answered, 
gravely.  "You  know  I  long  to  go  with  you, 
and  it  is  what  we  planned,  and  all  that,  but 
Lady  Chartersea  must  not  be  left  alone  in  Egypt 
when  Sir  John  is  liable  to  die  at  any  moment. 
It  would  be  cowardly  and  cruel  to  seek  my 
own  pleasure  at  the  expense  of  life-long  friends. 
My  mother" — he  hesitated  and  looked  down — 
"my  mother  is  not  very  well  pleased  with  my 
behavior  in  Cairo,  and  wrote  me  to  say  so  in 
her  last  letter.  You  will  be  generous  and  bear 
with  me,  won't  you,  darling?" 

The  girl's  white,  miserable  face  scanned 
his  fearfully.  He  knew,  then,  of  his  mother's 
objection  to  her,  and  was  endeavoring  not  to 
wound  her  further! 

"  Are  all  Englishmen  as  loyal  to  their  mothers 
and  their  mother's  friends  as  you  are?"  she 
asked,  bitterly. 

He  only  looked  at  her  reproachfully  for 
reply. 

"Oh,  Archie,  my  darling,  I  love  you  so!" 

she  cried,   suddenly  flinging   herself  into  his 

arms.     He    held    her    tenderly,    stroking    her 

hair,    and    endeavoring    to    soothe    her.     She 

26 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

clung  to  him  blindly,  as  if  bidding  him  a  last 
good-bye. 

"Why,  dear  little  woman,  don't  cry!"  he 
said.  "What  time  does  your  train  go  in  the 
morning?  I  am  going  to  Alexandria  with 

you." 

"Ten  o'clock,"  she  said,  drawing  away  and 
recovering  herself.  "But  won't  you  be  afraid 
to  leave  Sir  John?" 

In  his  simplicity  Cavendish  suspected  no 
irony,  and  when  Edith  perceived  it  her  heart 
smote  her.  He  only  answered,  decidedly : 

"I  shall  risk  it  that  far,  whether  I  dare  or 
not.  It  will  only  be  a  day.  I  am  going  to 
see  you  safely  on  board  the  ship.  On  the  way 
we  can  make  our  plans  and  discuss  the  future. 
Your  going  so  suddenly  leaves  several  things 
unsaid." 

She  followed  him  to  the  door  when  he  left 
her  to  return  to  Sir  John,  and  she  even  stepped 
outside  to  watch  his  tall  figure  descend  the 
corridor,  and,  as  if  feeling  her  longing  gaze,  he 
looked  back  and  waved  his  hand  to  her. 

As  she  turned  to  re-enter  a  crumpled  telegram 
lying  on  the  floor  of  the  hall  caught  her  eye. 
It  read : 

"  Charter  sea,  Shepheard's,  Cairo  2 

"  Arrived  safely.     Shall  be  in  Cairo  to-morrow. 

"  ROBERT." 
27 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

She  sat  down  in  a  half-dazed  condition  to 
think  it  out.  Could  it  be  possible  that  Archie 
had  dropped  it,  and  knew  all  the  time  that 
Robert  Gordon  had  come?  Impossible!  On 
the  other  hand,  Lady  Chartersea  used  this 
corridor,  but  if  she  dropped  it,  perhaps  Archie 
did  not  know,  and  when  he  went  back  to  tell 
them  of  her  meditated  departure,  Sir  John 
at  least  would  enlighten  Archie,  and,  after  all, 
he  would  go  with  them  to  Athens.  She  dis 
trusted  Lady  Chartersea,  but  Sir  John  was 
her  friend. 

She  stayed  restlessly  in  her  sitting-room  all 
the  remainder  of  the  evening,  momentarily  ex 
pecting  Archie  to  return.  It  was  after  mid 
night  when  she  finally  gave  up  hope  and  went 
to  bed. 

But  sleep  never  visited  her  straining  eyes, 
and  at  four  she  dressed  herself,  roused  the  ser 
vants  and  Mrs.  Richards,  and  despatched  all 
their  luggage  to  the  station  to  catch  the  earlier 
train. 

She  left  a  note  for  Cavendish,  enclosing  the 
telegram. 

"I  will  not  see  you  again  even  to  say  good 
bye,  so  do  not  follow  me  to  Alexandria.  An 
other  meeting  would  only  pain  us  both.  You 
shall  not  misunderstand  me.  I  received  a 
letter  from  your  mother  asking  me  to  release 
28 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

you  from  our  engagement.  I  did  not  know 
that  you  had  told  her.  I  would  have  braved 
her  displeasure  and  endeavored  to  win  her 
love  if  you  had  been  equally  courageous.  But 
I  will  not  temporize  concerning  so  sacred  a 
possession  as  love.  I  felt  so  sure  that  Lady 
Chartersea  had  dropped  this  telegram  near 
my  door,  and  not  you,  that  until  midnight 
I  expected  you  to  come  back  to  explain.  Sir 
John  would  have  enlightened  you.  I  think 
Sir  John  is  my  friend.  You  see,  I  am  being 
very  frank  with  you,  dear,  because  it  is  the 
last — the  very  last — I  shall  ever  say  or  write 
to  you." 

When  Cavendish  read  the  little  note  his  rage 
against  the  Charterseas  knew  no  bounds.  He 
knew  that  he  could  overtake  Edith  at  Alexan 
dria,  and  he  decided  on  the  instant  to  go  with 
her  to  Athens.  He  dared  not  trust  himself 
to  see  Sir  John.  He  knew  that  he  could  not 
contain  himself,  so  he  left,  without  informing 
them,  intending  to  send  back  a  wire  from  Alex 
andria. 

In  company  with  many  returning  tourists, 
all  booked  for  the  Khedivial,  he  caught  the 
ten-o'clock  train.  Here  he  had  ample  time  to 
reflect  on  Lady  Chartersea's  premature  in 
formation  to  his  mother  concerning  his  en 
gagement.  Well,  he  thought,  if  his  mother 
29 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

was  going  to  be  nasty  about  it,  he  would  marry 
Edith  in  Athens  at  the  American  minister's. 

He  had  just  come  to  this  conclusion  when 
the  train  stopped  between  stations  and  the  guard 
came  to  the  door  of  the  carriage  to  say  that  a 
messenger  had  flagged  the  train.  There  was 
a  serious  wreck  ahead  and  it  would  be  several 
hours  before  it  could  be  removed. 

The  excited  and  angry  passengers  poured 
out  of  the  carriages.  Most  of  them,  being  book 
ed  for  the  Khedivial,  would  thus  lose  the  boat 
unless  something  radical  could  be  done.  But 
what?  There  was  nothing  but  sand  and  palm- 
trees — not  even  a  telegraph  station.  Edith's 
train  was  the  last  to  reach  Alexandria  that 
day. 

In  a  torrent  of  vain  threats  against  the  rail 
way  company,  the  train,  after  standing  help 
lessly  on  the  tracks  for  several  hours,  was  taken 
back  into  Cairo,  bearing  half  a  hundred  angry 
men  and  women  who  besieged  the  ticket-offices 
with  frantic  demands  for  bookings  on  the  next 
ship. 

In  the  mean  time,  after  waiting  as  long  as 
her  captain  dared,  the  Khedivial  sailed  from 
Alexandria,  \vith  most  of  her  passengers  in 
ignorance  of  the  delayed  train  from  Cairo. 

When    Cavendish    reached    Shepheard's    he 
found  this  telegram  from  Edith : 
30 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

"  ALEXANDRIA. 

"Have  changed  plans.  Shall  stay  but  one  day  in 
Athens  EDITH." 

His  first  disappointment  soon  changed  to  ex 
ultation.  If  she  had  not  expected  him  to  follow 
her,  in  spite  of  her  letter,  she  would  not  have 
telegraphed ! 

Without  stopping  for  anything,  he  dashed 
across  the  street  to  the  booking-office,  but 
found  to  his  despair  that  owing  to  a  typhoon 
in  the  Red  Sea  there  was  no  probability  of  a 
ship  for  a  week,  and  it  might  be  ten  days.  He 
rushed  from  one  agent  to  another,  but  they  all 
agreed  upon  the  vexatious  delay. 

With  deliberation  the  certainty  grew  more 
and  more  in  his  mind  that  Edith  would  now  be 
too  far  in  advance  of  him  for  him  to  be  able  to 
trace  her.  She  might  even  return  to  America. 
Perhaps  he  should  never  see  her  again.  The 
longer  he  thought,  the  bitterer  he  grew  against 
the  Charterseas.  He  dressed  himself  carefully 
and,  with  his  usually  kind  face  grown  white  and 
stern,  he  presented  himself  before  his  friends, 
fully  determined  to  have  it  out  with  them.  He 
remembered  with  remorse  that  Edith  had  warned 
him  of  Lady  Chartersea's  opposition,  and  that 
he  had  ignored  her  hint.  Now  in  her  wounded 
pride  she  had  taken  herself  away  from  them  all. 
31 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

Robert  Gordon  was  there,  but  without  hesi 
tation  he  told  all  three  of  Edith's  departure, 
and  all  that  he  had  been  able  to  gather  as  to 
the  circumstances  leading  up  to  it. 

Sir  John  listened  in  silence,  his  twitching 
fingers  alone  betraying  his  wrath.  Then  he 
seized  the  tell-tale  telegram  and  shook  it  vio 
lently. 

"So,  madam!"  he  cried.  "This  is  all  your 
doing!  You  never  told  me  about  Robert's 
telegram!  You  took  it  upon  yourself  to  in 
form  the  countess,  knowing  that  it  would  kick 
up  a  devil  of  a  row,  and  she  wrote  and  broke 
that  little  American  girl's  heart!  Gad,  Archie, 
if  you  don't  follow  her  and  marry  her,  I'll  do  it 
myself!  I'll  commit  bigamy,  by  you!" 

Lady  Chartersea  was  weeping,  but  her  tears 
seemed  only  to  aggravate  her  husband's  rage. 

"Why  don't  you  speak  and  defend  yourself, 
if  you  can?" 

"I  knew  Lady  Mayhew's  plans  for  Archie. 
She — we  both  wanted  him  to  marry  sister. 
She  has  a  fortune  of  five  thousand  pounds, 
and  it  would  unite — " 

"Oh, I  say!"  protested  Robert  Gordon.  "Do 
spare  Archie's  feelings!" 

"So  that  is  your  game!"  cried  Sir  John, 
leaning  forward  with  his  hands  on  the  arms 
of  his  chair.  "  Well,  then,  we'll  buy  a  welcome 
32 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

from  the  dowager!  I'll  dower  Miss  Joyce  my 
self.  Archie,  my  wedding  -  present  to  your 
little  woman  shall  be  five  thousand  pounds. 
Gad,  I  like  her  spirit  in  running  away  from  a 
husband,  instead  of  running  after  one!  Mind 
you,  it's  five  thousand  pounds!  We  owe  it  to 
you  to  do  something!" 

Lady  Chartersea's  tears  dried  instantly. 

"Oh,  Sir  John!"  she  cried.     "Not  that!" 

"Be  off  with  you,  Archie,  my  boy,"  said  Sir 
John,  ignoring  his  wife.  "Follow  her  by  the 
first  boat." 

"  And  marry  her  before  you  get  to  England, 
old  man,"  added  Robert  Gordon. 

It  was  his  only  way  to  express  his  disapproval 
of  his  sister's  action.  Englishmen  love  fair 
play. 

"  There's  no  boat  for  a  fortnight,  and  I  haven't 
an  idea  where  she  will  go  when  she  leaves 
Athens,"  said  Cavendish,  looking  down. 

Sir  John  half  rose  from  his  chair,  then  sank 
back  again  and  glowered  at  his  wife. 

"Robert,"  he  said,  at  last,  "go  and  book 
our  passage  on  the  first  ship  leaving  this 
damned  town.  Archie,  you  go  book  yours. 
I'll  go  with  you  to  hunt  this  girl.  I  know  I've 
got  to  die.  You  are  none  of  you  deceiving  me 
by  your  cheerfulness.  My  days,  even  me 
hours,  are  numbered.  I  think  I'd  like  to  die 
C  33 


'  Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

righting  a  great  wrong.     It  might  atone  for 
many  a  wasted  hour  and  lost  opportunity." 

He  bent  his  eyes  upon  the  carpet  at  his  feet. 
Lady  Chartersea  made  a  movement  to  come  to 
him. 

"Five  thousand  pounds  dowry,  madam !"  he 
roared  at  her,  so  suddenly  that  she  fell  back  in 
alarm. 

There  were  twelve  days  during  which  no 
steamer  left  Cairo,  and  on  the  twelfth,  when 
the  Charterseas,  Robert  Gordon,  and  Cavendish 
set  sail  on  the  P.  &  0.  Rajah,  the  only  clew  to 
Edith's  whereabouts  they  had  was  a  telegram 
from  the  American  Minister  at  Athens,  in  re 
sponse  to  one  from  Cavendish,  saying  that  Miss 
Joyce  had  left  Athens  for  Olympia.  He  was 
ignorant  of  her  further  plans. 

The  sea  voyage  benefited  Sir  John. 

"  It's  of  no  use  to  get  off  at  the  Piraeus,"  he 
declared ;  "  she  has  had  a  week  to  do  Olympia 
since  she  left  Athens.  There's  only  one  thing 
to  see  at  Olympia,  and  that's  the  Hermes.  She 
has  been  to  Athens  before,  and  I  remember 
she  told  me  she  did  Thermopylae  and  all  the 
country  round  about.  Now,  it's  me  opinion 
that  she  went  from  Olympia  back  to  Patras, 
and  that  she  will  take  the  Austrian  Lloyd 
to  Brindisi.  At  Brindisi  I  shall  have  no  ob 
jection  to  disembarking  to  find  a  further  clew." 
34 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

"But  our  tickets  are  taken  for  Venice," 
objected  his  wife. 

"I'll  stop  at  Brindisi,"  roared  Sir  John,  "if 
I  have  to  buy  the  ship — or  sink  itl" 

Cavendish  was  impressed  by  the  force  of 
Sir  John's  argument,  and,  furthermore,  he 
wished  to  give  the  invalid  his  own  way  as 
much  as  possible.  Sir  John  seemed  sustained 
by  the  tenacity  of  his  purpose  to  find  the  miss 
ing  girl  and  reunite  the  lovers. 

On  the  second  day  out  from  the  Piraeus,  Robert 
Gordon  joined  Cavendish  in  his  restless  prom 
enade  of  the  Rajah's  deck,  and  said  Sir  John 
wished  to  see  him. 

The  two  men  found  Sir  John  much  excited. 

"What  do  you  think,  Archie?  What  do 
you  think,  Robert?  The  captain  has  just  been 
to  see  me,  and  he  says  with  this  wind  we  are 
gaining  two  hours  a  day.  The  Austrian 
Lloyd  leaves  Patras  to-night,  and,  if  this  wind 
from  directly  aft  continues,  we'll  overhaul  her 
at  Brindisi.  Now  Edith  is  on  that  Austrian 
Lloyd!  Robert,  you  take  these  field-glasses 
and  keep  a  sharp  lookout!  Go  on,  now,  but 
mind  you  bring  me  word,  as  I  shall  be  out  of 
me  head  until  we  sight  her  !" 

The  wind  remained  dead  aft,  and  before 
dark  the  P.  &  O.  had  gained  four  hours.  In 
vain,  however,  did  the  strongest  field-glasses 
35 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

stare  anxiously  over  the  waters  of  the  Ionian 
Sea  when  they  skirted  Cephalonia  and  came 
abreast  of  Corfu,  for  after  that  the  ocean  path 
ways  of  the  two  great  liners  converged  towards 
Italy's  shore. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day,  however, 
just  as  the  sun  went  down,  the  lookout  reported 
to  the  captian  that  a  ship  about  the  size  and 
in  the  direction  of  the  expected  Austrian  Lloyd 
could  be  discerned,  but  he  must  wait  until  her 
lights  appeared  to  be  sure. 

In  the  mean  time  the  Rajah  continued  to 
gain.  She  was  now  five  hours  ahead  of  her 
schedule.  A  dozen  glasses  were  levelled  on 
the  stranger,  when  suddenly  the  lights  of  the 
Austrian  Lloyd  flashed  out  on  the  darkness 
and  told  the  anxious  pursuers  that  it  was  in 
deed  she. 

Sir  John's  enthusiastic  reiterations  that 
Edith  was  a  passenger  on  her  had  so  impressed 
the  other  members  of  his  party  that  Cavendish 
stayed  up  all  night  watching  the  Rajah  close 
on  her  prey,  and  fancying  that  he  was  thus 
guarding  the  unconscious  slumbers  of  his  love. 

At  sunrise  Sir  John  was  up  and  examining 
the  liner,  which  lay  side  by  side  with  the  Rajah 
at  the  dock  at  Brindisi. 

"  By  Jove  1  this  is  the  most  extraordinary 
tljing,"  exclaimed  Sir  John.  "Go  call  Archie! 
36 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

The  lazy  dog!  He  deserves  to  lose  the  girl! 
Lying  asleep  at  this  hour  when  an  old  man  like 
me  can  be  up!  I'm  blest  if  I  don't  imagine  I 
can  see  Edith  on  the  upper  deck." 

"Archie  took  all  his  luggage  in  a  cab  and 
left  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ago/'  said  Robert 
Gordon,  without  lowering  his  glasses. 

"What's  that?"  roared  Sir  John.  "Took 
his  luggage!  And  does  he  think  we  are  not 
going  to  land  if  the  girl  is  there?  Here,  Sim 
mons!  Go  have  the  luggage  fetched  up  im 
mediately,  and  inform  her  ladyship — ' 

"I  do  see  her!"  interrupted  Robert.  "You 
said  she  had  red  hair,  didn't  you?  There  is  a 
commotion  among  the  passengers,  and — yes, 
there  is  old  Archie !  I  see  him  distinctly. 
See,  he  is  waving  his  handkerchief  to  us  !  Yes, 
yes,  old  boy!"  shouted  Robert  and  Sir  John, 
as  though  they  expected  to  be  heard.  "Wave 
yours,  Sir  John!  Shall  we  go — "• 

He  stopped  suddenly  and  lowered  his  glass. 
Sir  John  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  Robert 
leaned  over  the  gunwale  and  saw  Simmons 
put  Sir  John  carefully  into  a  cab  and  follow 
him. 

Sir  John  looked  up  and  shouted  to  his  brother- 
in-law  :  "  Fetch  my  wife  and  the  luggage,  and 
come  over,  Robert!  I'm  going  to  have  them 
married  in  Rome!" 

37 


The  Pacifier  of  Pecos 


The  Pacifier  of  Pecos 


ECOS  CITY,  after  a  day  of  terror, 
was  preparing  for  a  night  of  ap 
prehension.  The  cowboys  from  Pe 
cos  River  round  -  up  had  arrived 
that  morning  under  the  leadership  of  the  Paci 
fier,  whose  other  name,  seldom  used,  was  Clay 
Broadhead,  and  whenever  this  gentleman  was 
in  town  the  sound  of  a  pistol  made  every 
man  duck  his  head  involuntarily.  The  pro 
prietor  of  the  hotel,  just  across  the  street  from 
the  Lone  Wolf  saloon,  provided  his  chance 
patrons  with  bags  of  grain  to  stop  stray  bullets, 
and  advised  them  with  fatherly  caution  to 
sleep  on  the  floor. 

Pecos  City,  started  as  a  "front-camp"  during 
the  construction  of  the  Texas  Pacific  Railway 
in  '80,  contrived  for  five  or  six  years  to  rock 
along  without  any  of  the  elaborate  municipal 
machinery  deemed  essential  to  the  govern 
ment  and  safety  of  urban  communities  in  the 
41 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

effete  East.  It  had  neither  council,  mayor, 
nor  peace  officer.  An  early  experiment  in 
government  was  discouraging. 

In  1883  the  Texas  Pacific  station  agent  was 
elected  mayor.  His  name  was  Ewing,  a  little 
man  with  fierce  whiskers  and  mild  blue  eyes. 
Two  nights  after  the  election  a  gang  of  boys 
from  the  "Hash  Knife"  outfit  were  in  town, 
and  fearing  curtailment  of  some  of  their  privi 
leges,  the  election  did  not  have  their  approval. 
Gleaming  out  of  the  darkness  fifty  yards  away 
from  the  Lone  Wolf  saloon,  the  light  of  Mayor 
Ewing's  office  windows  offered  a  most  tempting 
target.  What  followed  was  very  natural — in 
Pecos.  The  mayor  was  sitting  at  his  table 
receiving  train  orders,  when  suddenly  a  bullet 
smashed  the  telegraph  key  beside  his  hand, 
and  other  balls  whistled  through  the  room, 
bearing  him  a  message  he  had  no  trouble  in 
reading.  Rushing  out  into  the  darkness  he 
spent  the  night  in  the  brush,  and  towards  morn 
ing  boarded  an  east-bound  freight  train.  Mayor 
Ewing  had  abdicated.  The  railway  company 
soon  obtained  another  agent,  but  it  was  some 
years  before  the  town  got  another  mayor. 

Such  was  Pecos  when  the  news  of  the  depre 
dations  of  a  band  of  horse  rustlers  brought  the 
Pacifier  and  his  cowboys  to  town.  It  was 
known  that  the  chief,  Big  Dan,  had  been 
42 


The  Pacifier  of  Pecos 

terrorizing  the  law-abiding  citizens  for  several 
weeks,  and  with  the  advent  of  the  Pacifier,  Big 
Dan's  hours  were  believed  to  be  numbered. 

The  Pacifier  was  holding  forth  on  his  favorite 
theme  to  the  frequenters  of  the  Lone  Wolf,  at 
the  same  time  keeping  a  sharp  lookout  for  Big 
Dan.  One  of  his  listeners,  the  most  recent 
tenderfoot,  named  Sanford,  listened  somewhat 
disdainfully  to  the  Pacifier.  Sanford  did  not 
believe  in  the  Pacifier,  nor  did  he  share  the 
general  apprehensions.  Conceit  is  a  dangerous 
quality  in  a  tenderfoot,  and  the  Pacifier  was 
sensitive.  He  directed  his  whole  discourse  at 
Sanford,  whose  smile  irritated  the  Pacifier 
more  and  more.  Yet  he  bided  his  time.  He 
only  watched. 

"There's  various  ways  of  killin'  a  man," 
he  remarked,  negligently,  "  and  on  most  of  'em 
good  opinions  vary.  Some  think  it  fair  to 
give  a  man  warnin'  you  intend  to  kill  him  on 
sight,  an'  then  git  right  down  to  business  as 
soon  as  you  meet.  But  this  ain't  no  equal 
chance  for  both.  The  man  that  sees  his  enemy 
first  has  the  advantage,  for  the  other  is  sure  to 
be  more  or  less  rattled.  Others  consider  it  a 
square  deal  to  stan'  back  to  back  with  drawn 
pistols,  to  walk  five  paces  apart,  an'  then  swing 
an'  shoot.  But  even  this  may  be  open  to  ob 
jections.  While  both  may  be  equally  brave  an' 
43 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

determined,  one  may  be  blamed  nervous,  like 
an  excitable  horse,  while  the  other  one  may 
have  bad  eyesight.  There's  only  one  way, 
an'  that  is  to  study  your  man,  let  him  know 
what  you're  going  to  do,  an'  then  do  it.  Never 
disappoint  your  victim,  an'  never  get  soft  at  the 
last  minute  an'  forgive  him.  Take  my  word — 
the  man  you  are  the  easiest  on,  is  the  man  who 
has  got  it  in  the  heaviest  for  you  and  who'll  do 
you  dirt  the  quickest. 

"Shoot  your  enemies  as  soon  as  you  make 
'em.  Don't  be  afraid,  an'  don't  be  soft." 

His  heavy  brow  contracted  into  a  fierce  frown ; 
his  black  eyes  narrowed  and  glittered  bale- 
fully;  his  surging  blood  reddened  his  bronzed 
cheeks. 

The  tenderfoot  turned  away  to  hide  a  smile, 
which  fortunately  the  Pacifier  did  not  see. 
He  considered  this  all  done  for  his  benefit — to 
terrify  an  Eastern  man.  He  did  not  know, 
as  all  the  others  knew,  that  the  Pacifier  was 
not  dilating  on  a  theory.  The  Pacifier  was, 
on  the  contrary,  a  man  of  practice,  especially 
in  the  matters  of  which  he  was  now  speaking. 
Indeed,  he  was  probably  the  most  expert  taker 
of  human  life  that  ever  heightened  the  prevail 
ing  dull  colors  of  a  frontier  community. 

And  yet  the  Pacifier  was  in  no  sense  an  as 
sassin.  He  was  never  known  to  kill  a  man 
44 


The  Pacifier  of  Pecos 

whom  the  community  could  not  very  well  spare. 
While  engaged  as  a  ranchman  in  raising  cattle, 
he  found  more  agreeable  occupation  for  the 
greater  part  of  his  time  in  thinking  out  the 
social  needs  that  are  apt  to  grow  quite  too 
luxuriantly  for  the  general  good  in  new  Western 
settlements. 

His  work  was  not  done  as  an  officer  of  the 
law  either.  It  was  rather  a  self-imposed  task, 
in  which  he  performed,  at  least  to  his  own  satis 
faction,  the  double  functions  of  judge  and  ex 
ecutioner.  And  in  the  unwritten  code  govern 
ing  his  decisions  all  offences  had  a  common 
penalty — death. 

The  Pacifier  was  born  with  a  passion  for 
fighting,  and  he  indulged  the  passion  until 
it  became  a  mania.  The  louder  the  bullets 
whistled,  the  redder  the  gleaming  blades  grew, 
the  more  he  loved  it.  Yet  no  knight  of  old 
that  rode  with  King  Arthur  was  ever  a  more 
chivalrous  enemy.  He  hated  a  foul  blow  as 
much  as  many  of  his  contemporaries  loved 
"to  get  the  drop" — which  meant  taking  your 
opponent  unawares  and  at  hopeless .  disad 
vantage.  In  fact,  in  most  cases  he  actually 
carried  chivalry  so  far  as  to  warn  the  doomed 
man,  a  week  or  two  in  advance,  of  the  precise 
day  and  hour  when  he  might  expect  to  die.  And 
as  the  Pacifier  was  known  to  be  most  scrupu- 
45 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

lous  in  standing  to  his  word,  and  as  the  victim 
knew  there  was  no  chance  of  a  reprieve,  this 
gave  him  plenty  of  time  to  settle  up  his  affairs 
and  to  prepare  to  cross  the  last  divide.  Thus 
the  estates  of  gentlemen  who  happened  to 
incur  the  Pacifier's  disapproval  were  usually 
left  in  excellent  condition,  and  gave  little  trouble 
to  the  probate  courts. 

Of  course  the  men  receiving  these  warnings 
were  under  no  obligations  to  await  the  Paci 
fier's  pleasure.  Some  suddenly  discovered  that 
they  had  imperative  business  in  other  and  more 
remote  parts  of  the  country.  Others  were  so 
anxious  to  save  him  unnecessary  trouble  that 
they  frequented  trails  he  was  known  to  travel, 
and  lay  sometimes  for  hours  and  days  awaiting 
him,  making  themselves  as  comfortable  as  pos 
sible  in  the  mean  time  behind  some  convenient 
bowlder  or  tall  nopal,  or  in  the  shady  recesses 
of  a  mesquite  thicket.  But  they  might  as  well 
have  saved  all  this  bother,  for  the  result  was 
the  same.  The  Pacifier  could  always  spare 
the  time  to  journey  even  from  New  Mexico  to 
Montana  when  it  was  necessary  to  the  ful 
filment  of  a  promise  to  do  so.  And  to  those 
who  were  impatient  and  sought  him  out  in 
advance,  he  was  ever  obliging  and  ready  to 
meet  them  when  and  where  and  how  they 
pleased.  It  was  all  the  same  to  him.  And  to 
46 


The  Pacifier  of  Pecos 

avoid  annoying  legal  complications,  he  was 
known  more  than  once  deliberately  to  give  his 
opponent  the  first  shot. 

If  the  tenderfoot  had  believed  all  this  he 
never  would  have  conducted  himself  as  he 
did,  nor,  indeed,  would  he  have  ventured  to 
Pecos,  for  fear  of  incurring  the  Pacifier's  wrath. 
But  he  was  destined  to  learn  that  the  Pacifier 
never  bragged,  for  just  as  this  point  in  the 
discourse  was  reached,  Big  Dan  came  in  sight. 

Big  Dan  would  have  turned  back  if  he  had 
seen  the  Pacifier  first,  but,  finding  himself  dis 
covered,  he  paused  in  front  of  the  Lone  Wolf 
with  his  hands  on  his  hips  and  surveyed  the 
group. 

''How  are  you?"  inquired  the  Pacifier. 

Dan  said  that  he  had  no  cause  to  complain. 

"  Business  pretty  good?"  inquired  the  Pacifier. 

The  rustler  said  it  couldn't  be  better. 

"If  you  ain't  in  too  much  of  a  hurry,  better 
step  inside  and  have  something,"  suggested 
the  Pacifier,  cordially. 

At  this  an  avenue  of  approach  to  the  bar  was 
made  so  hastily  that  to  the  tenderfoot  it  par 
took  of  the  nature  of  flight.  Sanford  was 
completely  deceived  by  the  wording  of  this 
interview,  and  threw  a  good-humored  glance 
around  to  show  that  he  was  not  to  be  taken  in. 

"I'm  on,  boys,"  he  whispered,  genially. 
47 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

But  not  an  eye  roved  from  the  figures  of  Big 
Dan  and  the  Pacifier,  who  tossed  off  the  drinks 
with  their  right  hands  on  their  six-shooters. 

Big  Dan  then  politely  ordered  another  round, 
and  the  Pacifier  acquiesced. 

"S'pose  we  have  a  bite  before  we  part/' 
suggested  the  Pacifier. 

Unable  to  plead  any  other  engagement  to 
dine,  the  rustler  accepted,  and  both  retired  to 
the  hotel  across  the  street.  As  they  sat  down 
at  table  both  agreed  that  their  pistols  felt  heavy 
about  their  waists,  and  each  drew  his  weapon 
from  its  holster  and  laid  it  on  his  knees. 

While  the  hotel  was  noted  for  the  best  cooking 
on  the  trail,  other  gentlemen  at  dinner  seemed 
oddly  indifferent  to  its  delicacies,  and,  nervously 
gulping  down  a  few  mouthfuls,  slipped  quietly 
out  of  the  room,  leaving  loaded  plates. 

Presently  the  Pacifier  dropped  a  fork  on  the 
floor  —  perhaps  by  accident  —  and  bent  as  if 
to  pick  it  up.  An  opening  in  the  guard  he 
could  not  resist,  the  rustler  seized  the  pistol 
lying  in  his  lap  and  raised  it  quickly,  but  the 
muzzle  struck  beneath  the  edge  of  the  table 
— an  instant's  delay!  It  was,  however,  enough. 
The  Pacifier  had  pitched  sideways  to  the  floor, 
and,  firing  beneath  the  table,  converted  a  bad 
rustler  into  a  good  one. 

This  was  more  than  Sanford  could  stand. 
48 


The  Pacifier  of  Pecos 

He  had  seen  the  whole  thing  from  the  doorway. 
As  the  Pacifier  strolled  past  him,  his  eyes  gleam 
ing  with  the  satisfaction  of  having  terminated 
the  career  of  the  leading  horse-thief  of  the  coun 
try,  Sanford  spoke. 

"It's  a  shame!"  he  blurted  out. 

The  Pacifier  stumbled  and  his  pistol  went 
off,  shooting  Sanford  in  the  foot. 

"It'll  be  some  time  before  I  see  you  again, 
Sonny,"  said  the  Pacifier,  "so  I'll  apologize 
now.  But  you  shouldn't  have  tripped  me  up. 
You  really  shouldn't,  you  know." 

At  the  sight  of  his  own  blood  Sanford  fainted. 
That  settled  him  forever  in  the  estimation  of 
Pecos.  No  one  had  an  atom  of  sympathy  for 
him.  He  was  removed  to  a  room  up-stairs  and 
forgotten  by  everybody  except  the  landlord. 

For  three  weeks  the  wounded  man  lay  soli 
tary,  conscious  that  he  was  an  outcast  in  the 
city  of  Pecos.  It  was  a  bitter  reflection,  but  it 
gave  him  time  for  meditation,  and  it  cured 
him  mentally.  Physically  he  was  not  improv 
ing,  owing  to  consistent  neglect. 

One  evening,  however,  when  the  group  in 
front  of  the  Lone  Wolf  was  about  as  usual,  a 
white  -  topped  wagon,  of  the  variety  known 
as  the  "prairie  schooner, "made  its  appearance, 
slowly  traversing  the  main  street  and  not  stop 
ping  until  it  reached  this  group.  Then  a  wom- 
D  49 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

an  leaned  forward,  and,  pushing  her  sun-bon 
net  back  from  her  head,  she  said : 

"Can  any  of  you  gentlemen  tell  me  if  there 
is  anybody  by  the  name  of  Sanford  in  town?" 

Her  voice  was  singularly  melodious,  her 
manner  gentle,  and  her  appearance  tender  and 
womanly.  Her  eyes  were  blue — of  an  appealing 
blue — and  her  gaze  was  sincere  and  innocent. 
Her  brown  hair  was  drawn  back  from  a  pure 
forehead  and  gathered  in  a  wavy  knot.  Her 
skin  was  delicately  browned  in  spite  of  the 
sun -bonnet,  but  it  appeared  pink  -  and  -  white 
to  the  bronzed  men  who  hung  spellbound 
upon  her  softly  spoken  words.  Her  mouth 
was  tender,  inclined  to  droop  at  the  corners, 
but  the  lips  were  of  a  clear  red  and  her  teeth 
small  and  of  a  transparent  whiteness.  Her 
whole  appearance,  her  thin  nostrils,  her  slender 
hands  and  small  waist,  betokened  a  sensitive 
nature  and  a  woman  of  delicate  sensibilities. 

No  other  type  of  woman  could  have  descended 
upon  Pecos  so  admirably  constituted  to  obtain 
its  unqualified  admiration. 

It  was  remarked  afterwards  that  the  Pacifier 
listened  to  her  with  dropped  jaw.  She  repeated 
her  question  and  asked  others.  Some  one  told 
her  where  Sanford  was  and  volunteered  to 
conduct  her  to  him.  The  Pacifier  followed  the 
two  so  closely  that  he  almost  trod  upon  her. 
50 


The  Pacifier  of  Pecos 

He  had  never  seen  such  a  woman  before.  His 
thoughts  were  spinning  through  his  brain 
like  lightning,  but  his  tongue  was  tied.  He 
even  followed  them  up-stairs  to  the  door  of  San- 
ford's  room,  and  was  only  recalled  to  his  senses 
by  the  landlord  saying,  in  a  hoarse  whisper : 

"Boys,  she's  his  wife!  Get  Pacifier  away 
before  she  asks  who  shot  him.  She  don't 
know  her  husband's  a  damned  tenderfoot!" 

At  the  sudden  thought  that  he  must  become 
an  object  of  horror  to  her  as  soon  as  she  spoke 
to  her  husband,  the  Pacifier  broke  away  from 
them  and  stumbled  down  the  stairs,  his  Mexi 
can  spurs  clanking  and  jingling  on  the  un- 
carpeted  wood. 

He  was  as  a  man  dazed.  He  walked  back 
to  the  Lone  Wolf  and  sat  down  without  speaking 
to  any  one.  Occasionally  he  passed  his  hand 
across  his  eyes  as  if  their  sight  had  suddenly 
become  blurred. 

It  was  not  that  Mrs.  Sanford's  appearance 
brought  back  to  the  Pacifier  recollections  of 
any  sweet  face  in  his  past.  He  never  had  seen 
— never  had  imagined — any  one  like  her,  and 
she  swept  him  off  his  feet  as  completely  as  if 
he  had  been  bowled  over  by  a  blow. 

Several  approached  and  spoke  to  him  as  he 
sat  there,  but  he  answered  no  one.  A  few 
suggested  that  his  conscience  was  working  at 
51 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

last,  and  that  he  regretted  shooting  Sanford, 
but  those  who  knew  him  best  shouted  at  the 
idea  of  the  Pacifier  regretting  that  much- 
needed  lesson  to  so  objectionable  a  tenderfoot. 

There  were  those,  however,  who  saw  that 
some  great  force  was  at  work  in  the  man's 
mind,  temporarily  relaxing  his  vigilance,  for 
the  Pacifier,  as  he  rode  heedlessly  along  on 
his  way  to  his  own  ranch,  was  that  very  night 
ambushed  by  three  of  Big  Dan's  friends  and 
shot  from  his  horse.  Crippled  too  badly  to 
resist,  he  lay  as  if  dead. 

Thinking  their  work  well  done,  the  three 
came  out  of  their  hiding,  kicked  and  cursed 
him,  and  rode  away.  But  the  Pacifier,  who 
had  not  lost  consciousness,  recognized  them. 

A  few  hours  later  a  driver  of  a  passing  wagon 
found  him,  and  hauled  what  he  supposed  was 
the  Pacifier's  corpse  into  Pecos,  where  he  was 
placed  in  the  hotel's  best  room  and  cared  for 
by  his  friends  in  marked  contrast  to  the  manner 
in  which  Sanford  had  been  treated. 

For  weeks  the  Pacifier  hovered  between  life 
and  death,  in  his  delirium  always  imagining 
that  he  saw  an  angel  in  his  room  with  the  face 
of  Mrs.  Sanford. 

Finally  he  began  to  mend  and  his  reason 
returned.  His  huge  strength  had  been  severely 
tested,  but  not  severely  impaired,  and  when 
52 


The  Pacifier  of  Pecos 

he  recovered  he  bade  fair  to  be  as  good  as 
new. 

A  few  days  after  his  delirium  left  him,  there 
came  a  soft  knock  on  his  door,  so  unlike  the 
boisterous  manners  of  his  friends  that  it  sent 
a  nervous  thrill  through  the  sick  man's  frame. 
He  stammered  an  answer,  and  Mrs.  Sanford 
entered,  moving  so  noiselessly  over  the  bare 
floor  that  the  Pacifier  shivered. 

Without  speaking,  she  sat  down  by  his  bed 
side  and  laid  her  soft  hand  on  the  sick  man's 
wrist,  counting  his  pulse-beats  by  a  tiny  watch. 
The  Pacifier,  scarcely  breathing,  stared  eagerly 
at  her  gentle  face,  noting  the  shadow  from  the 
eye-lashes,  the  delicate  pink  of  her  ears,  the 
dimple  at  the  left  of  her  mouth,  and  the  rise 
and  fall  of  her  breathing.  He  was  like  an 
explorer  having  reached  his  goal,  and  im 
printing  its  features  upon  his  dying  brain. 

The  watch  shut  with  a  snap  that  startled 
the  man.  His  eager  eyes  embarrassed  Mrs. 
Sanford,  for  a  delicate  color  crept  up  to  her 
cheek  and  mounted  to  her  temples,  and,  in 
watching  the  beauty  of  'it,  an  answering  flush 
reddened  the  man's  face. 

But  as  if  recollecting  her  mission,  she  bent 

over  him,  smoothing  the  thick  black  hair  from 

his  forehead,  her  touch  sending  electric  shocks 

to  the  farthermost  ends  of  the  man's  nerves, 

53 


Sir  Jo'hn  and  the  American  Girl 

and  alarming  him  by  their  newness  and  vio 
lence  as  no  fever  and  no  gun-shot  wound  had 
ever  done. 

"You  are  much  better,  Mr.  Broadhead," 
she  said,  looking  at  the  tips  of  her  fingers. 
"Your  fever  is  broken  for  good,  I  hope.  You 
have  begun  to  perspire  naturally." 

Her  voice,  low  and  gentle,  would  have  been 
sweet  in  any  woman,  having  that  peculiar  moth 
er  quality  of  those  who  brood  over  a  coming 
joy.  But  to  the  Pacifier  it  brought  so  tender  a 
rush  of  feeling  that  hot  tears  sprang  to  his 
eyes  and  rolled  off  on  his  coarse  pillow. 

Mrs.  Sanford  wiped  his  eyes  with  her  own 
pocket-handkerchief,  a  mere  white  wisp  com 
pared  to  the  flaming  device  which  was  always 
knotted  about  the  Pacifier's  neck  and  went  by 
that  name.  She  tucked  it  under  his  hand  as 
it  lay  outside  the  coverlet,  and  his  big  brown 
fist  closed  over  it  convulsively. 

"I  dreamed  of  you,"  he  muttered.  But  she 
answered : 

"No,  the  dream  was  a  reality.  You  saw 
me.  I  was  here." 

"Takin'  keer  of  me?" 

"As  much  as  I  could.     Your  friends  wrere 
very  kind  and  always  sat  up  at  night  with  you. 
But  I  gave  you  your  medicine.     You  wouldn't 
take  it  from  any  one  else." 
54 


The  Pacifier  of  Pecos 

The  Pacifier  lay  quiet  for  a  moment.  Then 
making  a  violent  effort,  he  said : 

"Did  I  talk?" 

"Oh  yes.  You  kept  calling  me  an  angel. 
You  were  very  grateful  for  every  little  thing 
I  did  for  you." 

The  Pacifier  frowned.  His  scarred,  repellent 
face  became  fierce  when  natural  and  unsoft- 
ened  by  feeling.  Mrs.  Sanford  hesitated.  She 
feared  she  had  irritated  him.  But  his  next 
attempt  awoke  so  powerful  an  emotion  that 
beads  of  sweat  broke  out  on  his  forehead  and 
around  his  mouth. 

"  I  mean — did  I — did  any  one  tell  you  that — 
that — I  shot  the  ten — that  I  shot  your — shot 
Sanford?" 

The  woman's  face  became  deathly  white  and 
she  started  up.  But  seeing  that  the  sick  man 
had  tried  to  raise  himself  also,  she  controlled 
herself  and  sank  back  in  her  chair  with  her 
hand  over  her  heart,  as  if  she  had  got  a  blow 
there. 

The  Pacifier's  eyes  searched  her  face  with 
fierce  apprehension,  fearing,  dreading  her  con 
demnation,  and  warding  off  dismissal  from 
her  tenderness. 

"No,"  she  murmured,  at  last.  "I  did  not 
know  that."  She  was  looking  down,  nervously 
smoothing  out  a  crease  in  her  cotton  gown. 
55 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

Suddenly  she  raised  her  eyes,  and  the  tears 
overflowed  and  dropped  silently  down  her 
cheeks.  She  leaned  forward  and  laid  her 
hand  on  his. 

"But  I  forgive  you!  Oh,  I  forgive  you,  as 
I  hope  to  be  forgiven!  I  would  not,  at  this 
time,  harbor  an  unforgiving  thought  or  the 
smallest  wish  for  vengeance.  I  want  to  keep 
my  heart  tender  and  my  conscience  clear. 
Even  thoughts  count  with  me  now.  No,  no 
one  told  me.  My  husband  said  he  interfered 
in  a  righteous  quarrel  and  was  shot  accidental 
ly.  He  never  told  your  name." 

"That  was  white  of  him,"  commented  the 
Pacifier.  "But  he  lied  some.  For  your  sake, 
I  reckon.  Who  wouldn't?  He  sassed  me,  an' 
I  winged  him  —  just  to  teach  him  not  to  in 
terfere.  I  was  doing  my  duty  —  as  I  see  it, 
an'  according  to  my  lights,  an'  no  damned 
tenderfoot  is  welcome  to  put  his  nose  before  the 
muzzle  of  my  gun  without  a  bite  off  the  end 
of  it." 

The  woman  hastily  took  away  her  hand  at 
the  fierceness  of  the  face  before  her.  But  in 
stantly  its  expression  changed. 

"Still,  if  I  had  knowed  —  if  I  had  knowed 
that  you — such  a — well,  just  you  and  no  other, 
was  his  pardner,  I'd  'a'  let  him  plug  me  full  of 
holes  before  I'd  put  a  bullet  in  him!" 
56 


The  Pacifier  of  Pecos 

The  renunciation,  the  self  -  abnegation  of 
this  declaration,  was  as  complete  as  if  another 
man  had  offered  up  his  life.  The  Pacifier  him 
self  felt  as  if  he  had  doffed  his  sombrero  for  a 
halo,  and  even  Mrs.  Sanford  dimly  understood. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  gently.     "I  believe 

you." 

The  sick  man  regarded  her  earnestly. 

"Is  there  anything  you  want?"  he  asked, 
presently.  "Can  I  do  anything  to  show  you 
— that — that — I'm  willing  to  ante  up  anything 
I've  got  to  please  you!"  he  ended,  passionately. 

"Yes,  there  is  something  I  want,"  she  said, 
her  blue  eyes  growing  dark.  "I  want  to  do 
some  good  here  in  Pecos!  My  husband  is 
ordered  to  stay  here  for  his  delicate  lungs,  and 
I  am  going  to  stay  with  him  until  just  before 
— until  I  am  called  home.  The  lawlessness 
and  wickedness  here  appall  me.  If  I  could 
only  get  those  men  together  to  talk  to  them 
of  God.  How  can  I  do  that?" 

"  You  want  a  revival ! "  exclaimed  the  Pacifier, 
eagerly,  who  remembered  the  word  from  his 
youth. 

"  Yes — that's  it.  A  revival ! "  said  the  woman, 
earnestly.  "Will  you — can  you — when  you 
are  well,  I  mean — " 

The  man  lay  back  on  his  pillow  with  a  smile 
and  closed  his  eyes. 

57 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

"  I'll  get  you  one !  Don't  worry  a  mite. 
Just  give  me  time  to  get  on  my  pins  again,  an' 
I'll  get  you  a  revival  that'll  knock  the  spots 
out  of  the  dome  of  heaven.  It'll  be  dead  easy 
to  get  the  boys  for  you,  Mrs.  Sanford.  The 
other  gospel  sharks  that  have  hit  the  town 
weren't  exactly  what  you  might  call  popular. 
But  the  boys  all  have  a  notion  of  religion,  an' 
for  you — well,  just — give — me — time!" 

A  look  of  such  joy  swept  over  the  woman's 
face  that  the  Pacifier  looked  to  see  her  float 
away  on  wings.  But  instead  she  gave  him 
his  medicine,  and  drew  down  the  shade  and 
told  him  to  try  to  sleep  while  she  sat  by  him. 

The  time  of  the  Pacifier's  convalescence 
was  the  most  turbulent  and  miserable  of  all 
the  troublous  times  he  had  lived  through. 

He  was  hopelessly,  madly,  idolatrously  in 
love  with  the  wife  of  another  man,  and  his  sin 
in  the  matter  rent  his  soul  in  twain. 

Those  who  do  not  know  the  frontiersman 
of  those  days  must  needs  be  told  that  ownership 
was  their  law  and  reverence  for  a  pure  woman 
their  religion.  A  violation  of  either  of  these 
was  death,  and  to  the  Pacifier  the  longing  and 
desire  which  possessed  him  for  forbidden  prop 
erty  was  as  if  he  should  detect  in  his  heart  a 
desire  to  become  a  horse -thief.  It  mortified, 
galled,  maddened  him.  It  tore  open  his  wounds 
58 


The  Pacifier  of  Pecos 

afresh,  and  delayed  his  recovery  until  he  almost 
came  to  the  point  of  confiding  his  secret  to  some 
friend  and  begging  Mrs.  Sanford  to  keep  away 
from  him. 

Such  a  thing  as  confiding  his  love  to  her 
and  insulting  her  by  a  knowledge  of  his  vile 
weakness  no  more  occurred  to  him  than  to  find 
a  solution  to  his  difficulty  by  firing  on  her  as 
she  bent  to  do  him  a  service. 

His  one  solace,  however,  was  the  revival  he 
meant  to  procure  for  her  the  moment  his  fight 
ing  strength  returned  to  him. 

He  was  safe  from  his  enemies,  for  the  moment 
his  three  assailants  discovered  that  their  work 
had  been  incomplete,  and  that  their  victim  was 
not  dead,  their  firm  faith  in  his  power  to  live 
and  avenge  himself  was  so  great  that  they 
wound  up  their  affairs  and  fled  the  town. 

This  did  not  disturb  the  Pacifier.  He  never 
spoke  to  any  one  of  his  plans.  He  simply 
gave  his  whole  mind  to  recovering  his  strength, 
and  finally  he  felt  that  he  was  a  well  man  once 
more. 

By  this  time  Sanford  had  recovered  and  was 
able  to  be  about,  although  he  limped  a  little. 
The  Pacifier  shunned  him,  but  no  one  busied 
himself  to  discover  reasons  for  the  Pacifier's 
curious  actions  in  any  event,  understanding 
that  he  held  peculiar  views  on  the  subject  of 
59 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

his  own  property — a  man's  thoughts  naturally 
coming  under  that  head. 

One  Tuesday  morning  about  ten  o'clock  he 
walked  into  the  Lone  Wolf  saloon,  laid  two  pis 
tols  on  the  end  of  the  bar  next  the  front  door, 
and  remarked  to  Red  Dick,  the  bartender,  that 
he  intended  to  turn  the  saloon  into  a  church 
for  a  couple  of  hours,  and  did  not  want  any 
drinks  sold  or  cards  thrown  during  the  service. 
Sanford,  who  was  within,  listened  curiousty. 
The  broad,  open  doorway  of  the  saloon  was 
flush  with  the  sidewalk  of  the  principal  thor 
oughfare  of  Pecos,  before  which  every  one  mov 
ing  about  the  town  had  to  pass. 

Taking  his  stand  just  within  the  doorway, 
pistol  in  hand,  the  Pacifier  began  to  assemble 
his  congregation.  The  first  comer  was  Billy 
Jansen,  the  leading  merchant  of  the  town. 
As  he  was  passing  the  door  the  Pacifier  re 
marked  : 

"Good-mornin',Mr.  Jansen;  won't  you  please 
step  inside?  Religious  services  will  be  held 
here  shortly,  an'  I  reckon  you'll  be  useful  in 
the  choir." 

The  Pacifier's  only  reply  to  Billy's  protest 
of  urgent  business  was  a  gesture  with  his  pistol 
that  made  Billy  think  going  to  church  would 
be  the  greatest  pleasure  he  could  have  that 
morning. 

60 


The  Pacifier  of  Pecos 

The  Pacifier  never  played  favorites  at  any 
game,  and  so  all  passers  were  stopped — mer 
chants,  railway  men,  gamblers,  thugs,  cowboys, 
freighters — all  were  stopped  and  made  to  enter 
the  saloon. 

The  least  furtive  movement  to  draw  a  gun  or 
to  approach  the  back  door  received  the  prompt 
attention  from  the  alert  evangelist  that  quickly 
restored  order  in  the  congregation. 

When  fifty  or  sixty  men  had  been  brought 
into  this  improvised  fold,  the  Pacifier  closed 
the  door  and  faced  about. 

"Fellers,"  he  said,  "this  meetin'  bein'  held 
on  the  Pecos,  I  reckon  we'll  open  her  by  singin' 
'Shall  We  Gather  at  the  River?'  Of  course 
we're  already  gathered,  but  the  song  sort  o' 
fits.  No  gammon  now,  fellers;  everybody 
sing  that  knows  her." 

The  result  was  discouraging.  Few  in  the 
audience  knew  any  hymn,  much  less  this  one. 
Only  three  or  four  managed  to  drawl  hoarsely 
through  two  verses.  However,  the  Pacifier 
was  reasonable  and  made  no  difficulty;  he 
knew  he  had  raw  material  to  deal  with,  and 
must  observe  the  patience  and  simplicity  of 
kindergarten  methods. 

The  hymn  finished — as  far  as  anybody  could 
sing  it — the  Pacifier  said : 

"Now,  fellers,  we'll  pray;  everybody  down  I" 
61 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

Only  a  few  knelt.  Among  the  congregation 
were  some  who  regarded  the  affair  as  sacrile 
gious,  and  others  of  the  independent  frontier 
type  were  unaccustomed  to  dictation.  How 
ever,  a  slight  narrowing  of  the  cold  black  eyes, 
and  a  significant  sweep  of  the  six-shooter, 
brought  every  man  of  them  to  their  knees, 
with  heads  bowed  over  faro  layouts  and  on 
monte  tables. 

"O  Lord!"  began  the  Pacifier.  "This  yere's 
a  mighty  bad  neck  o'  woods,  an'  I  reckon 
You  know  it.  Fellers  don'  think  enough  o' 
their  souls  to  build  a  church,  so  we  have  to 
pray  in  a  saloon,  an'  when  a  pa'son  comes 
here  they  don'  treat  him  half  white.  0 
Lord!  make  these  fellers  see  that  when  thej^ 
gits  caught  in  the  final  round-up,  an'  drove 
over  the  last  divide,  they  don'  stan'  no  sort  o' 
show  to  get  to  stay  on  the  heavenly  ranch 
'nless  they  believe  in  You  and  behave.  If 
they  don'  do  it,  now  the  way  is  pinted  out, 

0  Lord!   make    it  Your    pers'n'l    business   to 
see  that  they  wear  the  devil's  brand  an'  ear 
mark   an'    never   gits    another   drop    o'    good 
spring  water.     Of  course  I  allow  You  knows 

1  don'  sport  no  wings  myself,  but  I  want  to  do 
what's  right  if  You'll  sort  o'  give  me  a  shove 
in  the  proper  way.     An'  one  thing  I  want  You 
to  understand:   Clay  Broadhead's  got  a  fast 

62 


The  Pacifier  of  Pecos 

horse  an'  is  tol'able  handy  with  his  rope,  an' 
he's  goin'  to  run  these  fellers  into  Your  cor 
ral  even  if  he  has  to  rope  an'  drag  'em  there. 
Amen!  Everybody  git  up." 

While  he  prayed  in  the  most  reverent  tone 
he  could  command,  and  while  his  attitude  was 
one  of  simple  supplication,  the  Pacifier  never 
removed  his  keen  eye  from  the  congregation. 

Suddenly  he  beckoned  to  Sanford. 

"I  reckon  I've  got  'em  tamed  down  now  so's 
a  woman  can  handle  'em,"  he  whispered. 
"Go  call  your  wife  and  let  her  talk  to  'em. 
I'll  hold  'em  here.  You  needn't  worry  that  the 
congregation  will  break  loose  while  you're  gone. " 

"I  don't  think,"  began  Sanford,  with  due 
caution,  "that  she'd  exactly  like  to  come  into 
a  saloon.  Do  you,  when  you  come  to  think 
of  it?" 

A  light  broke  over  the  Pacifier's  face. 

"  Course  not !  Course  not  I  A  lady  like 
her.  You  go  sit  down.  I'll  tend  to  things." 

His  congregation  eyed  him  furtively,  each 
seeking  an  opportunity  to  bolt,  but  the  keen 
eye  of  the  Pacifier  discouraged  them. 

"Reckon  we'll  sing  again,"  he  remarked, 
"  an'  I  want  you  boys  to  let  her  out  a  little  more. 
Le's  see  what  you  all  knows." 

At  length  six  or  eight  sheepishly  owned  to 
knowing  "  Old  Hundred,"  and  it  was  sung. 
63 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

Then  the  sermon  was  in  order. 

"Fellers,"  he  began,  "my  ole  mother  used 
to  tell  me  that  the  only  show  to  shake  the  devil 
off  your  trail  was  to  believe  everythin'  the 
Bible  says.  What  yer  mother  tells  you  's 
bound  to  be  right — dead  right.  So  I  think  I'll 
take  the  sentiment  o'  this  yere  round-up  on 
believin' !  O'  course  as  a  square  man  I'm  boun' 
to  admit  the  Bible  tells  some  pow'ful  queer 
tales,  onlike  anythin'  we  'uns  strikes  now  days. 
Take  that  tale  about  a  fish  swallerin'  a  feller 
named  Jonah;  why,  a  fish  't  could  swaller  a 
man  'ud  have  to  be  as  big  in  the  barrel  as  the 
Pecos  River  is  wide,  an'  have  an  openin'  in  his 
face  bigger  'n  a  chimbley.  Nobody  on  the 
Pecos  ever  see  such  a  fish.  But  I  wish  you 
fellers  to  distinctly  understand  it's  a  fact.  I 
believe  it.  Does  you?  Every  feller  that  be 
lieves  a  fish  swallered  Jonah  hold  up  his  right 
hand!" 

It  is  sad  to  have  to  admit  that  only  two  or 
three  hands  were  raised. 

"Well,  I'll  be  durned,"  the  evangelist  con 
tinued,  "you  air  tough  cases.  That's  what's 
the  matter  with  you;  you  are  shy  on  faith. 
You  fellers  has  got  to  be  saved,  an'  to  be  saved 
you  got  to  believe,  an'  believe  hard,  an'  I'm 
going  to  make  you.  Now  hear  me,  an'  mind 
you  don'  ferget  it's  Clay  Broadhead  talkin' 
64 


The  Pacifier  of  Pecos 

to  you.  I  tells  you  that  when  that  thar  fish 
had  don'  swallerin'  Jonah,  he  swum  aroun' 
fer  awhile  lookin'  to  see  if  thar  was  a  show 
to  pick  up  any  o'  Jonah's  family  or  fr'en's. 
Now  what  I  tells  you  I  reckon  you're  all  bound 
to  believe.  Every  feller  that  believes  that 
Jonah  was  jes'  only  a  sort  o'  snack  fer  the 
fish  hold  up  his  right  hand,  an'  if  any  feller 
don'  believe  it  this  yer  old  gun  o'  mine  will 
finish  the  argiment." 

Further  argument  was  unnecessary;  all 
hands  went  up. 

"Now,  boys,  that's  the  way!  That's  the 
way  to  be  saved." 

The  evangelist  paused  here  and  looked 
questioningly  at  Sanford.  Then  having  ap 
parently  answered  his  own  mental  question, 
he  proceeded: 

"It's  a  damned  shame  to  have  such  mean- 
spirited,  low-down,  no-account  citizens  of  Pecos 
that  there  ain't  nothin'  but  a  dance-hall  or  a 
saloon  to  preach  and  pray  in.  I  ain't  no  sky- 
pilot,  and  I  don'  claim  to  be  nothing  but  a  sort  o' 
snow-plough  to  clear  the  track  for  the  sweetest 
woman  God  ever  made  to  take  a  hand  at  you 
boys.  I  told  Mrs.  Sanford  I'd  corral  you  an' 
git  you  into  a  prayerful  mood.  But  since  I 
began  this  meetin'  I've  had  it  made  plain  to 
me  that  we  can't  ask  Her  into  the  Lone  Wolf, 
E  65 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

an'  I've  decided  to  build  a  church  an'  to  git 
the  money  for  it  now.  A  thousand  dollars 
will  build  a  chapel,  an'  would  be  about  as  sporty 
a  place  as  Pecos  could  stand.  I'll  ante  up  a 
hundred  of  that  now,  an'  any  feller  that  don' 
chip  in  accordin'  to  his  means  will  sleep  in 
Boot  Hill  with  his  spurs  on  this  very  night." 

The  Pacifier,  with  his  keen  eyes  still  search 
ing  his  recalcitrant  congregation,  then  pulled 
a  roll  of  bills  out  of  his  pocket,  counted  off  one 
hundred  dollars,  dropped  the  money  into  his 
hat,  and  asked  Red  Dick  to  pass  the  hat  among 
the  congregation  for  a  subscription  to  build 
a  church.  The  contribution  was  general  and 
generous.  Many  who  early  in  the  meeting 
were  full  of  rage  over  the  restraint,  and  vowed 
to  themselves  to  kill  the  Pacifier  the  first  good 
chance  they  got,  finished  by  thinking  he  meant 
all  right  and  had  taken  about  the  only  prac 
ticable  means  "  to  git  the  boys  to  'tend  meetin'." 
Besides,  there  was  an  almost  pathetic  eagerness 
among  this  rough  band  to  come  within  sound 
of  a  woman's  voice,  and  Mrs.  Sanford's  name 
acted  like  magic. 

It  took  but  a  few  weeks  to  build  the  little 
frame  chapel,  and  ready  money  paid  for  it. 

Mrs.  Sanford  watched  over  it  from  the  laying 
of  the  foundation,  with  such  a  look  of  rapture 
in  her  blue  eyes  that  the  Pacifier  suddenly 
66 


The  Pacifier  of  Pecos 

came  to  a  decision  which  cost  her  gentle  heart 
much  apprehension.  The  Pacifier  sold  his 
ranch,  disposed  of  his  cattle,  and  "took  the 
trail." 

His  friends  thought  it  was  revenge  alone 
which  prompted  him.  He  left  no  word  for 
Mrs.  Sanford.  It  was  "his  way."  But  after 
he  had  left  town,  and  her  husband  told  her 
that  he  had  gone  to  hunt  down  his  three  en 
emies,  her  heart  ached  for  him. 

The  Pacifier  gave  no  sign.  He  discovered 
No.  I  of  his  enemies  in  Cheyenne. 

Cheyenne  was  a  law-abiding  community, 
and  the  Pacifier  could  not  afford  to  take  any 
chances  of  court  complications  that  would  in 
terfere  with  the  completion  of  his  work.  He 
therefore  spent  several  days  in  covertly  watch 
ing  the  habits  of  his  adversary.  From  the 
knowledge  thus  gained  he  was  able  one  morn 
ing  suddenly  to  turn  a  street  corner  and  con 
front  No.  I.  Without  the  least  suspicion  that 
the  Pacifier  was  in  the  country,  No.  I,  know 
ing  that  his  life  hung  by  a  thread,  jerked  his 
pistol  and  fired  on  the  instant.  As  the  Pacifier 
had  shrewdly  calculated,  his  enemy  was  so 
nervous  that  his  shot  flew  wild.  No.  I  did  not 
get  a  second  shot.  At  the  inquest  several 
witnesses  of  the  affray  swore  that  Broadhead 
did  not  even  draw  until  after  the  other  had  fired. 
67 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

Several  weeks  later  No.  2  was  found  in  Tomb 
stone,  Arizona,  a  town  of  the  good  old  frontier 
sort  that  had  little  use  for  coroners  and  juries, 
so  the  fighting  was  fair.  Half  an  hour  after 
landing  from  the  stage-coach,  the  Pacifier  en 
countered  his  man  in  a  gambling  house.  No. 
2  remained  in  Tombstone — permanently.  The 
Pacifier  resumed  his  travels  by  the  evening 
coach. 

The  hunt  for  No.  3  lasted  two  months.  The 
Pacifier  followed  him  relentlessly  from  place 
to  place  through  half  a  dozen  States  and  Terri 
tories  until,  early  the  next  spring,  he  was  located 
on  a  ranch  near  Spearfish,  Dakota.  They 
met  at  last  one  afternoon  within  the  shadow 
of  the  Devil's  Tower. 

In  the  duel  that  ensued  the  Pacifier's  horse 
was  killed  under  him.  This  occasioned  him 
no  particular  inconvenience,  however,  for  he 
found  that  No.  3's  horse,  after  being  given  a 
few  hours'  rest,  was  able  to  carry  him  into  Dead- 
wood,  where  he  caught  the  Sidney  stage. 

This  work  of  vengeance  had  taken  the  Pacifier 
about  four  months,  and  in  the  mean  time  he  had 
heard  nothing  from  Pecos.  In  spite,  however, 
of  having  left  the  town  as  much  in  order  to 
take  himself  away  from  the  temptation  as  to 
accomplish  his  mission  of  death,  the  Pacifier 
now  felt  such  an  overwhelming  longing  to 
68 


The  Pacifier  of  Pecos 

see  her  once  more  that  he  started  out  for  Pecos, 
although  swearing  each  morning  that  he  would 
go  no  farther  than  that  night.  He  often  thought 
and  thought  seriously  upon  subjects  which 
little  troubled  his  companions.  He  was  not 
vexed  by  reproaches  of  conscience,  for  in  his 
creed  every  death  he  had  compassed  was  jus 
tified,  and  in  his  eyes  he  had  never  done  any 
one  wrong. 

"I  often  wonder/'  he  said  to  himself,  as  he 
jogged  along  on  horseback  over  the  open  prairie, 
through  the  still  forests,  or  under  the  silent  stars, 
"I  often  wonder  how  this  thing  will  end.  Of 
course  I  know  I  can't  go  on  this  way  forever. 
A  man,  no  matter  how  quick  he  is  on  the  trigger 
or  with  his  knife,  is  bound  to  be  winged  some 
time,  but  I'd  give  a  heap  to  know  right  now 
whether  it'll  be  by  pistol  or  knife,  an'  whose 
hand  will  hold  the  weapon  that  shoves  me 
over  the  last  divide." 

But  in  summing  up  all  his  acquaintances, 
enemies  and  friends,  before  his  mental  vision, 
he  could  not  find  any  whose  quickness  and 
accuracy  equalled  his  own,  or  whose  hand  he 
had  specific  cause  to  dread. 

He  reached  Pecos  about  noon  of  a  soft  spring 

day,  when  the  ground  was  moist  from  recent 

rains  and  when  the  air  had  a  buoyancy  which 

tingled   in   the   blood.     His   eagerness   to   see 

69 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

Mrs.  Sanford  had  increased  his  pace  to  a  gallop, 
but  when  he  reached  the  square  containing 
the  little  frame  chapel  built  to  please  her,  he 
reigned  his  horse  upon  his  haunches  and  stared 
with  dropped  jaw  at  the  charred  remains  of 
the  little  church.  Then  without  a  word  he 
pushed  on  to  the  Lone  Wolf,  churning  himself 
more  and  more  into  a  rage,  until,  when  he  dis 
mounted  before  the  door,  foam  was  dropping 
from  his  mouth  like  that  of  a  rnad  dog,  and 
his  eyes,  from  wind  and  dust  and  rage,  glowed 
in  their  sockets  like  two  red  coals 

Startled  by  his  appearance,  every  one  fell 
away  from  the  bar,  leaving  only  Red  Dick, 
the  bartender,  to  face  him.  There  was  no 
need  for  the  Pacifier  to  ask  a  question.  Red 
Dick  began  his  narrative  without  any  urging. 

"  It's  a  bad  business,"  he  said,  simply.  "  No 
body  knows  who  done  it,  but  we  think  some  of 
Big  Dan's  gang  fired  it  to  spite  you.  We  done 
all  we  could  to  save  it.  Every  man  in  town 
turned  out  an'  handed  buckets  of  water,  but 
it  got  such  a  start  of  us  that  it  went  like  tinder. 
The  doctor  says  it  wasn't  that  that  killed  her— 

The  Pacifier  stumbled  forward  and  leaned 
his  shaking  arms  upon  the  bar. 

"Killed  who?"  he  muttered,  hoarsely. 

"Killed  Mrs.  Sanford!  She  got  up  an' 
came  out  an'  urged  us  on  an'  filled  the  water 
70 


The  Pacifier  of  Pecos 

buckets  herself.  We  thought  she  might  'a' 
strained  herself,  but  the  doctor  said  she  couldn't 
'a'  lived  anyway,  an'  the  shock  only  hurried 
it  on.  There  was  a  baby,  you  know/' 

"A  baby!"  whispered  the  Pacifier. 

Red  Dick  dropped  his  voice. 

"  Yes,  a  baby.  It  died,  an'  they  buried  'em 
both  together,  just  a  week  ago  to-day.  San- 
ford  he  went  back  East.  She  had  worked  so 
hard  an'  was  so  proud  of  her  Sunday-school, 
an'  the  boys  set  such  a  store  by  her.  The 
doctor  says  he  couldn't  'a'  saved  her  anyway, 
but  it's  ray  belief  that  it  broke  her  heart  when 
she  lost  her  little  church." 

Without  waiting  for  any  more  the  Pacifier 
stumbled  out  of  the  saloon  and  made  his  way 
to  the  freshly  made  grave  on  Boot  Hill,  where 
slept  the  Madonna  of  his  dreams. 

They  found  him  there  that  night,  shot  by 
his  own  hand,  and  the  only  word  he  left  was  a 
letter  to  the  bank  in  El  Paso,  where  he  had 
deposited  his  money,  ordering  that  it  should 
all  be  used  to  build  a  stone  church  at  Pecos 

"IN  MEMORY  OF  HER." 


With  Mamma  Away 


With  Mamma  Away 


EING  the  oldest,  I  think  I  ought  to 
run  the  house,"  I  said,  settling  down 
to  talk  things  over  with  Bess,  as 
mamma's  trunks  retired  down  the 
street,  majestically  piled  on  the  very  top  of 
the  wagon. 

"No,  I  want  to;  I'm  so  much  neater  than 
you  are.  You  don't  care  if  the  beds  have 
wrinkles  in  the  sheets,  and  you  never  notice 
dust." 

"But  I  love  to  market,  and  you  know  we 
always  have  good  things  to  eat  when  I  have 
charge.  Do  let  me  run  it." 

"You'll  run  it  into  the  ground  and  break  it 
off,"  put  in  Jamie.  "No,  I  don't  mean  that, 
France.  I'll  never  go  back  on  a  girl  that  gets 
up  such  spreads  as  you  do.  Bess,  let  France 
do  it." 

"I'll  tell  you  what  we'll  do.     I'll  take  the 
table  and  you  take  the  rest  of  the  house,  Bess. 
75 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

I  admit  that  I  hate  to  fuss  with  the  draperies 
and  bric-a-brac  and  things,  and  you  don't  like 
to  know  what  we  are  going  to  have  for  dinner." 

"All  right;  that  just  suits  me." 

"And  now,  whenever  three  or  four  people 
come  in,  in  the  evening,  we'll  serve  an  ice. 
How  does  that  strike  you?" 

"  It  strikes  me  delightfully.  What  else  shall 
we  do?" 

"  Well,  have  company  every  Sunday  to  dinner, 
so  as  to  fill  in  that  yawning  gap  between  two 
o'clock  and  four,  which  means  an  extra-good 
dinner,  always  with  salad  and  ice-cream." 

Jamie  wriggled  with  delight  as  I  unfolded 
these  modest  plans  concerning  the  weeks  when 
we  would  be  at  the  head  of  the  house — in  the 
daytime,  at  least. 

With  the  greatest  difficulty  mamma  had 
provided  two  excellent  servants,  who  promised 
to  be  contented  in  the  small  basement  bed 
rooms,  which  were  the  servants'  quarters, 
until  the  new  house  was  finished. 

No  matter  how  devoted  girls  are  to  their 
mother,  nor  what  a  dear,  sweet  mother  they 
have,  as  we  have,  it  is  fun  to  have  her  go  away 
sometimes  and  leave  them  in  charge.  Our 
plans  worked  like  a  charm.  Like  Jack  Spratt 
and  his  wife,  together  Bess  and  I  made  one 
good  housekeeper. 

76 


With  Mamma  Away 

I  took  Olga  under  my  charge,  and  together 
we  evolved  some  stately  meals.  Jamie  revelled 
in  the  things  he  loved.  I  indulged  papa's 
Southern  taste  for  hot  breads  of  all  kinds,  and 
they  came  to  the  table  hot,  too ;  so  did  I,  by  the 
way!  But  presiding  behind  the  urn  cooled 
me  off,  and  cheered  my  soul  besides.  Papa 
praised  us,  and  said  he  hadn't  lived  so  well  for 
years. 

Every  night  we  had  Augusta  bring  in  an 
ice  in  the  sherbet  glasses  with  my  little  souvenir 
after-dinner  coffee -spoons,  which  I  had  been 
collecting,  and  it  made  conversation  flow  so 
much  more  easily.  I  meant  that  the  spoons 
did,  because  we  could  always  discuss  them; 
but  the  ice  did,  too,  for  that  matter.  There 
is  nothing  like  eating  to  loosen  people's  tongues 
and  make  them  feel  sociable. 

We  went  up,  one  morning,  in  great  glee,  to 
tell  Aunt  Kate  about  our  superior  housekeeping. 
She  listened  attentively,  and  then  said : 

"How  do  the  servants  behave?" 

"Beautifully.  They  seem  perfectly  willing 
to  do  everything  we  tell  them.  We  let  them 
have  an  afternoon  a  week  and  every  other 
Sunday,  and  we  are  all  getting  along  like 
angels." 

"Don't  tax  them  too  much/'  said  Aunt  Kate, 
as  we  came  away. 

77 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

"Isn't  that  just  like  mamma?"  said  Bess; 
"she  always  considers  the  servants  first." 

"I  think  women  pamper  their  servants  and 
their  horses,"  I  said,  decidedly.  "If  we  ever 
own  horses,  I  shall  not  spare  them  because  it's 
too  hot  or  too  cold,  and  walk  myself ;  nor  shall 
I  spoil  these  servants.  When  mamma  comes 
home  she'll  see  that  we  can  get  more  work  out 
of  them  than  she  can." 

"Who  is  coming  Sunday,  France?" 

"Mr.  Standish  and  Mr.  Ford-Burke." 

"  Gracious  1  How  dared  you  have  that  Eng 
lishman,  when  the  English  are  accustomed  to 
such  elegant  table  service?" 

"Papa  suggested  it,  and  then  he  has  enter 
tained  us  so  much,  Bess,  we  ought  to." 

"  Well,  that  is  in  your  line,  but  do  be  careful, 
France.  Don't  have  too  many  courses.  You 
know  we  started  out  with  only  three." 

"Tend  to  your  dusting,  angel,  and  all  you'll 
have  to  do  is  to  open  your  mouth  to  be  fed." 

I  planned  a  dinner  "utterly  regardless/' 
as  Bess  said,  for  I  was  anxious  to  make  a  good 
impression  on  Mr.  Ford-Burke,  and  I  couldn't 
think  of  a  better  way.  "When  in  doubt,  play 
trumps."  I  played  them.  I  sent  Bess  and 
papa  off  to  church.  I  didn't  dare  to  go,  for 
fear  Olga  would  burn  or  break  or  destroy  some 
of  the  marvels  I  had  helped  her  cook  and  was 
78 


With  Mamma  Away 

determined  to  see  through  to  the  bitter  end. 
Mr.  Ford-Burke  was  very  particular  and  ac 
customed  to  the  best  of  everything.  Oh,  have 
you  ever  entertained  people  who  made  you  worry 
so  for  fear  you  couldn't  suit  them,  that  you 
just  wanted  to  lie  down  and  die  beforehand? 

I  must  say,  as  I  surveyed  the  piles  of  plates 
in  the  pantry  and  the  number  of  spoons  and 
forks  on  the  table,  that  an  uncomfortable  twinge 
disturbed  my  serenity,  for  it  looked  like  a  dinner 
party.  I  hastily  resolved  never  to  do  it  again. 
But  pretty?  The  table  was  a  dream,  if  I  do 
say  it  myself. 

"Augusta,  don't  get  the  plates  mixed,  and 
remember  that  Olga  has  a  list  of  the  way  the 
courses  are  to  come  on.  Don't  make  a  clatter 
washing  the  fish-forks  for  the  salad  course, 
and  be  sure  you  cool  them.  You  brought  them 
in  red-hot  the  last  time,  so  that  anybody  would 
know  they  had  just  been  washed.  I  do  wish 
we  had  just  one  more  set.  Be  sure  to  hand 
things  at  the  left,  and  don't  laugh  at  papa's 
jokes,  and  don't  forget  your  cap,  whatever  you 
do." 

Augusta  looked  stolidly  contemptuous,  and 
I  went  up-stairs  to  rest  for  the  fifteen  minutes 
before  it  was  time  to  dress.  I  was  uneasy. 
My  conscience  was  rampant.  If  1  tucked  it  in 
on  one  side,  it  bobbed  out  on  the  other.  Oh, 
79 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

I  never  would  have  such  a  dinner  again  on 
Sunday.  What  would  mamma  say? 

Presently  Augusta  appeared  at  the  door. 
She  had  her  hat  on. 

"  I  t'ink  you  have  to  get  anoder  girl.  Olga 
she  leave.  She  want  her  money." 

"  Leave!  Not  now,  Augusta,  not  right  now?" 
I  said,  wildly. 

"Yes'm,  we  leave  a -right  now.  Olga  she 
want  her  money." 

"Well,  you  won't  go,  Augusta  !  Please 
wait  till  after  dinner." 

"No;  I  go  when  Olga  go.  Olga  she  already 
gone.  Our  trunks  go  yesterday.  Olga  she 
want  her  money." 

Mr.  Ford-Burke! 

"Augusta,  if  you  and  Olga  will  stay  till 
after  dinner,  I'll  give  you  an  extra  week's 
wages  apiece." 

"  I  t'ink  you  have  to  get  anoder  girl.  Olga 
she  already  gone.  I  go  when  Olga  go." 

"I'll  give  you  a  sealskin.  I'll  give  you  a 
house  and  lot!"  I  wailed,  hysterically. 

A  noise  at  the  door  made  her  think  papa  was 
coming,  and  she  knew  he  would  make  her 
stay,  so  she  turned  and  went.  She  actually 
ran.  Oh,  if  I  had  had  a  gun! 

I  sat  there  perfectly  paralyzed.  It  was  too 
late  to  do  a  single,  solitary,  individual  thing 
80 


With  Mamma  Away 

but  to  put  crape  on  the  door  and  send  word 
to  Mr.  Ford-Burke  that  I  was  dead. 

Well,  it  served  me  right.  That  came  of 
having  a  dinner-party  on  Sunday.  Oh,  but 
Mr.  Ford-Burke  !  He  was  liable  to  come  at 
any  minute.  And  that  elegant,  dear,  beautiful 
dinner! 

I  rushed  down-stairs.  Heavens  !  there  was 
the  door-bell.  It  made  me  sick.  I  sat  down 
on  the  stairs  a  minute,  and  the  blessed  thought 
came  to  me  that  it  might  be  Jamie.  I  crept  to 
the  door  and  peeked  through  the  glass.  Never 
was  I  so  glad  to  see  his  little  freckled  nose  and 
honest  gray  eyes  in  all  my  life.  I  dragged 
him  in  and  told  him  all  about  it. 

"What  shall  I  do?  Think  quickly,  Jamie, 
and  tell  me." 

"Whee-oo!  but  you  are  up  a  tree,  France. 
And  your  'man/  as  Olga  calls  him,  coming." 

"Don't  mention  that  creature's  name  to  me. 
I  think  Swedes  are  the  hatefulest  race  on  earth." 

"  Won't  Bess  yell !  Oh,  poor  France  !  I'd 
wait  on  table,  but  I'd  surely  spill  things.  Why, 
what's  the  matter?" 

"  Jamie,  I'll  wait  on  it.  Come  on  down  and 
crack  some  ice  and  put  it  in  that  ice-tub  while 
I  dress.  Oh,  you  blessed  boy!" 

I  ran  down  and  saw  that  everything  was 
ready  to  serve.  I  got  Augusta's  new  cap  that 
F  81 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

she  had  never  worn — it  was  bought  with  an 
eye  to  Mr.  Ford-Burke — and  I  rushed  up  to 
my  room.  In  almost  no  time  I  had  on  a  dark- 
blue  skirt,  a  white  silk  shirt-waist,  a  long,  tidy- 
looking  apron,  and  the  cap.  Fortunately, 
fortunately,  it  was  becoming. 

The  door-bell  rang,  and  Jamie  to  the  rescue. 
He  came  up-stairs  three  at  a  time. 

"France!  France!"  he  said,  in  the  lurid 
whisper  adopted  by  small  brothers  when  young 
men  are  in  the  parlor.  "  Ford-Burke  and  Stan — 
good  gracious  !  What  have  you  got  on?"  He 
pranced  around  me,  with  wild  demonstrations 
of  approval.  It  must  have  sounded  to  those 
gentlemen  as  if  we  were  moving  furniture. 

"  Hush  !  stop  !  Tell  me,  Jamie,  do  I  look 
nice?" 

"You're  out  of  sight,"  he  chuckled. 

"I  wish  I  were,"  I  said,  rebelliously. 

"Hurry  up  and  go  down.  I'm  going  to 
hang  over  the  banisters  to  see  how  they  take 
it." 

Thus  encouraged  I  did  go  down,  but,  honestly, 
I  was  ridiculously  frightened.  I  didn't  know 
what  Mr.  Ford-Burke  would  do;  you  know 
Englishmen  are  so  queer.  My  tongue  almost 
refused  to  come  unglued  from  the  roof  of  my 
mouth  and  I  had  to  swallow  violently  before  I 
could  begin.  Then  I  dropped  a  courtesy  and 
82 


With  Mamma  Away 

told  my  story.  I  made  it  as  amusing  as  I 
could,  but  I  never  felt  less  like  it  in  my  life.  I 
could  have  wept  with  rage  even  then.  Fort 
unately  they  were  delighted.  Mr.  Ford-Burke 
behaved  charmingly. 

Then  Bess  and  papa  came.  I  wish  you  could 
have  seen  Bessie's  eyes  open.  Good-breeding 
alone  kept  her  mouth  from  following  suit. 
She  was  simply  stunned.  We  had  heaps  of  fun 
out  of  the  dinner.  Bess  presided  in  my  place. 
The  guests  made  an  exception  of  their  rule  not 
to  talk  to  the  maid,  and  conversed  freely  with 
me,  but  I  demurely  refused  to  respond.  Bess 
assured  them  that  I  was  too  well  trained,  and 
I  proved  to  them  what  a  thoroughbred  I  would 
have  been  had  my  lot  fallen  in  that  sphere 
of  life. 

But  oh,  what  a  council  of  war  we  held  after 
they  had  gone!  I  wept  on  papa's  shirt-front, 
and  he  submitted  without  a  whimper,  adminis 
tering  pats  calculated  to  soothe  when  they 
didn't  make  me  cough  by  their  severity,  for 
the  sorrier  papa  is  the  harder  he  pats.  But 
all  their  efforts  failed  to  console  me.  I  felt  then 
that  I  never  wanted  to  see  Mr.  Ford-Burke 
again.  But  I  got  over  that. 

Papa  said,  "  Advertise."  Bess  said,  "  Answer 
advertisements."  I  said,  "Let's  do  both." 

We  got  out  the  morning  papers.  My  eyes 
83 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

were  red  and  my  cap  askew,  so  Bess  read  them 
aloud. 

" '  Wanted.  In  small  family' — um,  that  won't 
do.  'Wanted,  wanted,  situation  as  cook,  as 
second  girl — 

"Well,  read  them,"  I  said. 

"  But  they  all  say  '  no  postals/  and  you  can't 
go  yourself  to  all  these  places,  miles  and  miles 
from  here." 

"No  what?"  roared  papa. 

"No  postals/'  I  said,  wearily. 

The  snort  of  disgust  that  emanated  from  my 
father  would  have  done  credit  to  a  war-horse. 
But  I  was  used  to  it.  I  had  helped  mamma 
before. 

Monday  I  went  to  an  intelligence  office, 
sent  advertisements  to  all  the  papers,  wrote 
nineteen  postals,  and  then  sat  down  to  wait. 
I  expected  a  small  army  to  apply.  No  one 
came.  Tuesday  I  again  sought  the  intelli 
gence  office. 

"  Why  haven't  you  sent  me  anybody?"  I  said. 

"Well,  you  see,  Olga  Olesen  and  Augusta 
Lutgren  are  here  looking  for  a  place,  and  when 
ever  I  find  one  who  is  willing  to  go  and  look  at 
your  accommodations,  Olga  tells  her  that  you 
have  seven  courses  in  your  dinners  and  serve 
ice-cream  every  night  at  ten  o'clock,  besides 
three  regular  meals  and  lots  of  company." 
84 


With  Mamma  Away 

My  heart  went  clear  down  into  the  cellar  of 
that  intelligence  office.  Bess  poked  me.  "  Say 
something/'  she  whispered;  "where  is  your 
spirit?  Speak  out,  I  tell  you." 

Thus  adjured,  I  found  my  voice. 

"Tell  the  ladies,"  I  said,  with  unappreciated 
sarcasm,  "  that  will  not  occur  again.  We  have 
had  some  company,  but  we  will  never  have 
any  more.  We  will  never  have  more  than  two 
courses,  and,  if  they  don't  like  that,  one  will 
do.  They  can  have  three  afternoons  a  week 
and  the  use  of  the  piano  from  nine  till  twelve." 

She  looked  at  me  with  some  suspicion,  but 
I  met  her  eye  with  so  much  meekness  that 
she  decided  to  let  that  pass. 

"You  have  basement  bedrooms,  and  the 
doctors  tell  girls  that  they  are  unhealthy." 

"Then  they  can  have  the  front  alcove  room 
over  the  parlor,  and  papa  will  sleep  in  the  base 
ment.  They  might  feel  safer  that  way,  and 
papa  is  not  at  all  particular,  just  so  the  ladies 
of  his  kitchen  are  happy." 

"I'll  send  you  somebody,"  she  said,  shortly, 
closing  her  book. 

"Please  do,"  I  said,  sweetly.  "I'll  be  under 
such  obligations  to  you." 

Bess  and  I  got  home  in  some  way — I  don't 
remember  how. 

I  utterly  refused  to  board.  I  insisted  upon  no 
85 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

one  telling  Aunt  Kate,  and  I  cooked.  My 
hands  went  into  the  dish-water  three  times  a 
day,  and  went  into  a  cologne  bath  six  times  a 
day.  Bess  wailed,  I  was  stoical,  Jamie  and  papa 
overpoweringly  sympathetic  and  indignant. 

Day  after  day  I  talked  to  the  "ladies"  who 
"called"  in  response  to  my  advertisement, 
which  was  becoming  as  well  known  as  the 
Douglas  three -dollar  shoe.  Day  after  day  I 
escorted  them  to  look  at  their  rooms  and  then 
let  them  out  at  the  basement  door.  I  hired 
some  twelve  or  thirteen.  They  never  came 
back.  I  knew  they  wouldn't.  Papa  had  vowed 
that  the  basement  rooms  had  nothing  to  do 
with  it;  but  as  two  weeks  went  by  and  no  ser 
vants,  he  began  to  ruminate  with  great  empha 
sis.  Next  he  tried  to  hurry  the  men  on  the 
new  house,  and  suggested  putting  the  servants' 
rooms  in  the  cupola. 

One  day  I  hired  Ellen.  Ellen  was  a  green, 
slow-moving  creature,  who  propelled  herself 
by  her  shoulders,  and  Jamie  said  her  face 
was  the  map  of  Ireland.  Ellen  didn't  mind 
bedrooms.  This  was  in  the  third  week  of  my 
dish-washing. 

Dear  Ellen!  I  couldn't  get  anybody  else. 
So  Ellen  had  everything  her  own  way. 

She  was  a  Catholic,  and  I  had  to  let  her  attend 
mass  before  she  would  think  of  us;  but  she 
86 


With  Mamma  Away 

would  at  least  wash  the  dishes,  and  she  had 
all  the  mass  she  wanted. 

She  was  the  funniest  thing  we  ever  had,  and 
her  expression  outdid  an  illustrated  newspaper. 
She  took  the  most  violent  fancy  to  me,  and 
bored  Bess  by  telling  her  how  she  did  "  luv  Miss 
France."  She  was  always  doing  things  I  didn't 
tell  her  to  do,  and  leaving  her  regular  work  un 
touched.  She  had  seen  the  man  clean  the  win 
dows,  yet  one  day  I  saw  a  bucket  of  soapsuds 
standing  on  the  parlor  carpet  and  Ellen  clinging 
to  the  upper  sash,  washing  the  outside  of  the 
front  windows  at  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon. 
As  she  was  nearly  through,  I  simply  sighed 
and  let  her  finish. 

In  about  ten  minutes  there  came  a  timid  ring 
at  the  front  door.  Of  course — no  Ellen.  I  didn't 
see  her  at  the  window  either,  so  I  went  myself. 

There  stood  my  maid-of-all-work,  with  a  cor 
ner  of  her  apron  in  her  mouth.  She  generally 
wore  it  there,  by-the-way. 

"Oh,  Ellen,"  I  said,  pleasantly,  "did  you  lock 
yourself  out?" 

"No'm.     I  fell  out." 

"Fell  out?" 

"Yes'm.     Didn't  you  see  me  go?" 

I  bit  my  lip.  If  I  laughed,  I  knew  she  would 
leave. 

"  Why,  no, I  didn't !  Did  it  hurt  you,  Ellen?" 
87 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

It  was  twelve  feet  to  the  ground. 

"No'm,  not  hurt  me,  but  it  jar- red  me  some; 
and  I  felt  so  foolish." 

A  pause. 

"I  lit  on  me  feet/'  she  said  as  she  picked  up 
her  bucket  and  propelled  herself  violently  tow 
ards  the  stairs  by  those  shoulders  — "  and 
burst  me  shoe/'  she  added  as  she  disappeared 
down  into  the  darkness. 

Ellen  left  that  night.  Her  sister  died  or  Was 
born,  or  something  —  I  don't  remember  what. 
Anyway,  she  left.  I  had  foolishly  paid  her  in 
full  Saturday — a  thing  mamma  never  does, 
by-the-way.  Wise  mamma  1  Foolish,  foolish 
France! 

Aunt  Kate  had  possessed  herself  in  some  fash 
ion  of  the  facts,  and,  thinking  them  too  funny 
for  anything,  had  written  to  mamma.  Then 
began  agonized  letters  from  the  dear  heart, 
wondering  what  her  helpless  family  would  do, 
and  brooding  over  our  distress.  This  would 
never  do ;  her  trip  would  do  her  no  good  if  she 
worried. 

I  made  a  frantic  effort  for  a  servant — you 
notice  I  have  come  down  to  one,  and  both  the 
efforts  and  the  franticness  lasted  two  weeks. 
Bess  wrote  daily  soothing  letters  to  mamma 
and  nobly  let  her  dusting  and  draperies  suffer 
while  she  helped  me. 


With  Mamma  Away 

Suddenly  a  middle-aged  woman  appeared 
with  a  skin  like  papyrus.  She  wanted  to  come, 
She  liked  Bess  and  me.  She  didn't  object  to 
Jamie.  She  didn't  mind  the  bedroom.  She 
was  in  a  hurry  for  a  place.  She  had  good 
references.  Her  eagerness  was  suspicious. 
But  oh,  she  was  such  a  nice,  respectful,  sen 
sible  talking  person;  my  heart  yearned  over 
her. 

"  There  is  one  thing  that  may  be  an  objection 
to  you.  I  have  a  dog.  It  will  cost  me  two 
dollars  a  week  to  board  him  out.  If  you  will 
let  him  come  with  me,  I'll  work  for  four  and 
a  half  a  week  and  do  all  your  work." 

"But  we  want  two  girls,  and  mamma  will 
get  another  when  she  comes  home,  anyway. 
Besides,  papa  hates  dogs,  and  never  would  even 
let  us  have  one." 

"He  won't  bark  nor  disturb  any  one;  I'll 
never  have  him  in  sight.  I've  had  trouble. 
That  dog  is  the  only  thing  on  earth  that  I  have 
to  love  or  to  love  me.  I'm  thirty-nine  and  look 
seventy.  I'll  have  no  company  and  won't 
want  even  an  afternoon  out.  When  my  work 
is  done,  I  read." 

"But  I  have  a  cat,"  I  objected. 

"He  won't  touch  your  cat.  I'll  see  to  it 
myself.  I'll  do  everything  you  want  and  take 
all  the  responsibility  off  from  you.  I  can  cook 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

all  the  things  you  young  ladies  love,  and  can 
serve  an  elaborate  dinner  all  myself." 

How  those  pathetic  words  touched  me  ! 

"Papa  would  never  notice  the  dog  unless  he 
fell  over  him,"  said  Bess,  dubiously. 

"We  might  try  you  until  he  discovered  it," 
I  said,  doubtfully. 

"If  he  is  not  observing,  he  would  never  know 
it,"  said  the  woman,  decidedly.  "  And  I  might 
manage  to  suit  him  so  well  that  he  wouldn't 
care." 

"If  you  choose  to  come  on  the  condition  that 
if  papa  finds  out  about  the  dog  and  wants  j^ou 
to  go,  you  will  not  consider  it  unjust,  and  if 
you  will  promise  to  give  me  at  least  a  week's 
warning  before  leaving,  you  may  come." 

"I  will.  I'll  not  leave  you  alone,  with  your 
mother  gone.  I'd  be  ashamed  to." 

"  What  is  your  name,  please?" 

"Elaine  Ormund." 

"Dear  me!     Haven't  you  a  middle  name?" 

"My  middle  name  is  Lucile." 

Elaine  Lucile  Ormund.     With  that  skin! 

"Would  you  mind  if  we  called  you  Anna? 
Be  honest,  now,  and  say  so,  if  you  would." 

"Not  in  the  least.     I'll  answer  to  the  name  of 
Anna.     My  names  are  fancy.     But   I've  not 
always  worked  out.     I've    had    trouble.     Yes, 
my  names  are  fancy  for  a  cook." 
90 


With  Mamma  Away 

"A  little  fancy,"  I  admitted.  "Come  to 
morrow." 

An  anxious  letter  from  mamma  made  me 
say  to  Jamie,  "  Telegraph  that  L  have  hired  a 
cook.  It  will  ease  her  mind." 

Jamie  went  with  alacrity. 

"Did  you  say  'and  a  dog'?"  I  asked  him 
when  he  came  back. 

"No,  but  I  can." 

"Put  it  in,  then;  it's  so  funny." 

I  forgot  to  ask  him  how  he  sent  it,  and  he 
neglected  to  say  that  he  had  sent  two.  Mamma 
received  the  telegrams  in  this  way:  "And  a 
dog.  Keep  it  dark  from  pa. — Jamie."  In 
an  hour  she  got  another:  "France  has  hired 
a  cook.  Make  yourself  easy. — Jamie."  And 
by  using  her  wits,  she  discovered  the  facts. 

Anna  came.  She  is  a  wonder.  She  appears 
to  be  just  what  she  said.  She  can  do  even 
more  than  she  said.  She  cleans  to  suit  even 
Bessie,  and  cooks  to  suit  even  me.  The  little 
black  cat  still  arches  her  back  at  the  dog,  but 
no  collisions  have  occurred.  Papa  does  not 
notice  the  hungry  barks  which  appear  to  ema 
nate  from  next  door,  nor  the  dragging  of  a 
chain  under  the  library  window.  Neither  does 
the  glib  conversation,  which  springs  into  mush 
room  growth  at  these  critical  moments,  excite 
his  suspicion.  It  will  be  Jamie  who  betrays  us 
91 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

eventually,  as  my  dog  stories,  called  forth  to 
cover  his  rash  references,  already  are  giving 
out;  so  there  is  what  might  be  called  a  canine 
undercurrent  in  our  family  life  just  now,  which 
may  swamp  us  sooner  or  later.  Still,  Anna 
keeps  her  part  of  the  agreement  bravely. 

The  neighbors  are  expecting  to  see  the  roof 
go  off  at  any  time,  for  we  are  all  suspicious  of 
such  a  wonder.  Gingerly  and  by  degrees  I  am 
inviting  in  a  little  company.  Anna  actually 
seems  to  rise  to  the  occasion.  But  I  am  wary ; 
still,  the  new  house  is  almost  finished,  and, 
best  of  all,  mamma  will  come  home  next  week. 


The  Chattahoochee  Woman's 
Club 


The  Chattahoochee  Woman's 
Club 


HATTAHOOCHEE  was  originally 
intended  to  be  in  Georgia,  but  the 
new-comers,  having  carelessly  run 
the  town  more  towards  the  south  than 


northward,  and  its  having  been  settled  direct 
ly  on  the  border,  it  came  within  the  Florida 
State  line,  and  its  post-office  was  legally  changed 
to  Chattahoochee,  Florida. 

It  was  inhabited  by  settlers  from  many  States, 
mostly,  of  course,  Georgia  and  Florida,  but 
there  were  three  families  from  Texas,  one  from 
Chicago,  and  one  from  Bangor,  Maine. 

Perhaps  it  was  this  brisk  Northern  element, 
perhaps  it  was  the  trunk  line  which  not  only 
ran  its  road  through  Chattahoochee,  but  built 
a  fine  stone  station,  with  electric  lights  and  a 
ladies'  room  where  smoking  was  not  allowed; 
but  for  some  reason  the  Chattahoochee  Wom 
an's  Club  applied  for  admission  to  the  General 
95 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

Federation  of  Women's  Clubs  and  sent  a  dele 
gate  to  the  Denver  Convention. 

To  say  that  the  town  was  stirred  up  over  the 
first  meeting  after  the  delegate's  return  is  to 
state  the  case  mildly.  It  was  felt  that  they 
of  the  South,  although  so  far  removed  from  the 
seats  of  learning  and  admittedly  so  backward 
in  woman's  progress,  were  at  last  to  be  brought 
in  touch  with  modern  thought.  They  held 
themselves  in  a  plastic  and  receptive  mood. 
They  were  to  be  brought  up  to  date  at  last. 

Their  spirit  was  always  admirable.  They 
sent  their  daughters  to  New  Orleans  to  school 
and  patronized  light  opera  in  Atlanta.  Not  a 
few  could  play  Victor  Herbert's  "Serenade," 
and  warbled  the  words  while  making  tomato 
preserves  or  canning  dewberries.  But  all  their 
past  progress  was  as  nothing  to  the  innova 
tion  of  the  next  meeting.  The  President,  Mrs. 
Fannie  Callaway,  had  given  out  the  general 
subject,  "Browning  and  His  Works,"  and  al 
though  "aghast  at  her  timerity,"  as  her  hus 
band  proudly  put  it,  "  the  whole  blooming  club 
took  the  hurdle  without  a  whinny  or  a 
whicker." 

It  was  found  that  there  was  not  a  complete 
set  of  Browning  in  Chattahoochee,  two  mem 
bers  only  possessing  the  Lovell's  Library  pa 
per  volume  of  his  "Selected  Poems."  These 
96 


The  Chattahoochee  Woman's  Club 

speedily  lost  their  covers  by  much  handling 
during  the  week  in  which  the  Baptist  Publica 
tion  Society  of  Atlanta  was  engaged  in  supply 
ing  their  demands. 

Mrs.  Summers,  the  wife  of  the  Washington 
correspondent  on  the  Indianapolis  Sentinel, 
was  given  for  her  subject  "Sordello."  She 
came  to  Chattahoochee  for  hay-fever. 

Mrs.  Carter  had  "Evelyn  Hope";  the  wife 
of  the  Methodist  clergyman,  Mrs.  Spaulding, 
was  given  "Caliban  upon  Setebos";  and,  with 
the  report  of  the  delegate,  this  would  consume 
the  allotted  time.  The  Secretary,  a  Boston  girl 
who  was  in  Chattahoochee  teaching  school, 
assigned  the  subjects.  The  afternoon  was 
under  the  auspices  of  the  "Progress  towards 
Modern  Thought  Department,"  which  was 
only  another  way  of  stating  that  Chattahoochee 
wished  to  catch  step  with  the  North  and  to  live 
up  to  its  telephone  service  and  electric  light. 

The  Club  movement  in  the  South  is  obliged 
to  contend  with  the  peculiar  conditions  resulting 
from  a  fusion  of  the  Old  and  New  South,  the 
Old  South  clinging  to  its  traditions ;  the  New 
roughly  jostling  them.  Nearly  all  of  the  hus 
bands  of  the  club  members  loathed  the  whole 
proceeding,  and  Judge  Maddox  openly  declared 
that  if  his  wife  ever  got  on  the  platform,  even 
to  read  her  paper,  he  would  leave  her. 
G  97 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

When  the  Maddoxes  lived  in  Atlanta  the 
judge  had  been  Chairman  of  the  Committee 
governing  the  Atlanta  Lyceum  Course,  and  he 
it  was  who  always  refused  to  have  women 
speakers  or  lecturers,  no  matter  how  famous. 
In  fact,  the  more  famous  women  were  upon  the 
platform  of  public  life,  the  more  infamous  they 
became  in  the  eyes  of  this  Southern  gentleman 
of  the  Old  South. 

Several  other  first  families  frankly  repudiated 
the  whole  club  idea  as  unwomanly  and  unsex- 
ing  in  its  tendencies.  Mrs.  Carroll  said  she 
"would  as  soon  be  called  a  hyena  as  a  club 
woman,"  and  these  sentiments  prevented  the 
club  leaders  from  suggesting  any  innovations. 
Thus  hampered  by  tradition,  they  had  hitherto 
stuck  to  the  novels  of  Mrs.  Holmes  and  Mrs. 
Southworth,  and  their  last  annual  meeting  had 
been  in  the  form  of  a  symposium  to  discuss  the 
relative  merits  of  these  two  lady  novelists. 

Nevertheless,  the  Chattahoochee  Woman's 
Club  flourished,  but  its  members  had  the  un 
comfortable  feeling  that  while  the  study  this 
year  of  modern  novels  was  a  daring  step  in  the 
right  direction,  still  their  course  of  study  lacked 
ballast,  lacked  tone.  They  read  accounts  of  the 
progress  of  other  clubs  and  grew  more  un 
comfortable.  They  were  afraid  of  being  left  in 
the  lurch. 

98 


The  Chattahoochee  Woman's  Club 

Therefore,  when  Mrs.  Callaway  fired  her 
bomb  and  jumped  from  William  Watson  to 
Browning,  they  all  suddenly  walked  with  a 
freer  step  and  became  dignified  in  their  own 
eyes. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  second  Monday  in 
the  month,  there  was  an  enthusiastic  outpouring 
of  ladies  who  fluttered  in  and  out  of  Masonic 
Hall,  with  note -books  and  pencils.  One  man 
was  present  and  sat  on  the  front  seat.  He  was 
the  correspondent  for  the  Sentinel,  on  a  flying 
visit  to  his  wife,  and  had  flattered  the  Woman's 
Club  by  begging  permission  to  write  an  account 
of  it  from  its  incipiency  for  his  paper.  To  the 
delighted  members  it  seemed  that  at  last  every 
thing  was  conspiring  to  bring  the  Club  into 
the  front  rank. 

Mrs.  Callaway  took  the  chair  and  rapped  for 
order.  Miss  Baxter  read  the  report  of  the  last 
meeting,  and  commented  favorably  upon  Mrs. 
Tuggle's  paper  on  William  Watson,  "  a  poet  so 
pure  in  tone  that  an  exhaustive  study  of  his 
anniversary  odes  would  not  bring  the  blush  of 
shame  to  the  most  delicate  woman's  cheek." 

A  little  ripple  of  applause  greeted  this  quota 
tion  from  Mrs.  Tuggle's  paper. 

The  report  was  adopted,  and  then  the  Presi 
dent  called  upon  Mrs.  Carter  for  her  paper  on 
"Evelyn  Hope."  Mrs.  Carter  was  perfectly 
99 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

composed.  She  stepped  upon  the  platform, 
bowed  slowly  to  the  President,  who  graciously 
returned  her  bow,  then  to  the  body  expectant 
of  the  Club. 

"Ladies  and  guests  of  the  Chattahoochee 
Woman's  Club,"  she  began,  "it  is  with  great 
pleasure  that  I  see  before  me  our  famous  gen 
tleman  guest,  who  has  so  flatteringly  begged 
permission  to  write  us  up." 

At  this  juncture,  in  unwrapping  her  manu 
script,  written  on  tinted  glazed  paper,  all  the 
middle  pages  slipped  out  and  fluttered  to  the 
floor  at  the  feet  of  Mr.  Summers,  who  sprang  to 
recover  them  for  her. 

Not  one  whit  disturbed  by  the  misfortune,  she 
clasped  her  hands  and  allowed  him  to  scratch 
up  from  the  bare  floor  the  unruly  pages  which 
seemed  to  glue  themselves  down  in  order  to 
discomfit  him.  In  despair  he  handed  her  four 
or  five  that  she  might  begin,  but  she  waved 
him  off. 

"They  aren't  numbered,  so  won't  you  just 
run  them  over  for  me  and  arrange  them  ?" 
she  said. 

He  gave  her  one  look,  but  the  Southern  lady, 
accustomed  to  such  services  from  all  men, 
never  dreamed  that  she  was  asking  too  much, 
nor  did  any  other  member  of  the  Club,  except 
one  or  two.  Mrs.  Summers  put  her  hand- 
100 


The  Chattahoochee  Woman's  Club 

kerchief  up  to  her  face  and  shook  so  that  the 
lady  back  of  her  pulled  Mrs.  Summer's  cape 
farther  over  her  shoulders. 

Mrs.  Callaway  rose  on  the  platform. 

"  As  this  will  be  a  mattah  of  some  little  time, 
I  will  ask  Mrs.  Cartah  to  be  seated  at  my  right 
hand,  and  will  call  foh  some  of  the  unfinished 
business  of  the  last  meetin'.  The  schedule  of 
study  foh  next  year  has  been  handed  in  by 
the  Committee,  and  you  have  had  two  weeks 
in  which  to  decide  if  it  meets  with  yoh  ap 
proval.  Are  there  any  objections  ?  Ladies, 
please  speak  promptly." 

Mrs.  Tuggle  was  recognized  by  the  Chair 
and  said : 

"Ladies  of  the  Chattahoochee  Woman's 
Club: — I  wish  to  place  myself  on  record  as  a 
progressive  woman,  and  yet  a  defender  of  the 
home  and  the  moral  tone  of  our  city.  Thahfoe 
I  deem  it  my  duty  to  protest  against  the  study 
of  Rudyahd  Kiplin',  and  suggest  William  Dean 
Howells  instead." 

A  distinct  flutter  swept  over  the  audience  at 
this. 

"I  would  ask,"  began  Mrs.  Summers,  "to 
have  Mrs.  Tuggle  state  which  of  Kipling's 
works  she  would  bar,  or  if  she  would  bar  all." 

"I  haven't  had  the  pleasure,"  responded  Mrs. 
Tuggle,  politely — "  I  mean,  the  opportunity — of 
101 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

readin'  the  wohks  of  Mr.  Kiplin',  but  Mist 
Tuggle  told  me  of  one  of  his  pieces,  The  Takin' 
of  somethin'  or  other,  it  begins  with  L,  but  I 
can't  pronounce  it." 

"  'The  Taking  of  Lungtungpen/  "  murmured 
Miss  Baxter. 

"Thank  you,  Miss  Baxtah.  'The  Takin' 
of ' — a  town — which  Mist  Tuggle  said  he  knew 
that  the  gentlemen  of  this  city  would  not  like 
to  have  their  wives  and  innocent  young  dawtahs 
read.  It  speaks  of  takin'  the  city  in  thah — in 
thah  underdose!" 

"If  that  is  true,"  said  Mrs.  Lord,  "I  file  my 
protest  with  Miz  Tuggle's.  I  wish  to  see  the 
city  of  Chattahoochee,  which  unites  the  two 
great  States  of  Jawja  and  Florida,  to  stand  for 
purity  in  all  things." 

"Three  protests  bar  an  author,"  said  the 
President.  "  Is  thah  another  besides  Miz  Tug 
gle's  and  Miz  Lawd's?" 

A  half-dozen  hands  were  raised  in  the  au 
dience. 

"The  works  of  Rudyahd  Kiplin'  are  barred," 
announced  the  President. 

A  motion  was  made  and  carried  that  his 
name  be  printed  in  the  list,  with  a  foot-note 
stating  that  his  works  had  been  discussed  and 
barred  for  impurity,  and  that  the  Chattahoo 
chee  Woman's  Club  go  on  record  as  a  cham- 
102 


The  Chattahoochee  Woman's  Club 

pion  of  literature  which  the  young  girl  might 
read. 

Mrs.  Lord  moved  that  the  works  of  Howells 
be  substituted,  and  called  for  a  rising  vote.  It 
was  carried  unanimously. 

"  I  move  that  the  works  of  John  Oliver  Hobbes 
be  barred  because  she  is  a  woman  writin'  under 
the  name  of  a  man,  which  is  unbecomin'  and 
impropah!"  said  Mrs.  Culpepper. 

A  short  silence  ensued.  Then  some  one 
suggested  that  their  own  Miss  Murfree  had 
done  the  same.  A  brisk  discussion  followed, 
ending  in  allowing  the  works  of  John  Oliver 
Hobbes  to  remain  rather  than  even  seem  to 
repudiate  the  action  of  one  of  their  own  South 
ern  women. 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne  and  George  Eliot  were 
condemned,  the  first  because  of  The  Scarlet 
Letter,  and  George  Eliot,  both  on  account  of 
Adam  Bede  and  because  of  her  own  life. 
The  works  of  E.  P.  Roe  were  added  by  request. 
They  then  passed  a  resolution  to  protest  against 
Sarah  Bernhardt  playing  in  the  States  of  Florida 
and  Georgia,  and  ordered  copies  sent  to  both 
State  legislatures. 

By  this  time  Mr.  Summers  had  sorted  Mrs. 
Carter's  paper,  and  the  ladies,  with  eyes  spark 
ling  with  excitement,  heard  her  discussion  of 
"Evelyn  Hope."  She  approved  of  it  heartily, 
103 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

all  but  the  fact  that  Evelyn's  lover,  being  con 
fessed  by  the  noble  poet  to  be  thrice  her  age  of 
sixteen  years,  was  much  too  old  for  her. 

A  burst  of  applause  and  much  whispering 
and  nodding  of  feathers  and  flowers  followed 
this  masterly  summing-up  of  the  whole  poem. 

Mrs.  Summers  was  then  called  to  the  platform 
to  read  her  paper  on  "Sordello."  She  was  a 
little  woman  in  a  red  shirt-waist  and  black 
skirt,  and  she  wore  glasses.  She  had  no  paper. 
She  simply  crossed  her  hands  and  began  to 
speak. 

"  The  most  truthful  summing-up  of  the  poem 
of  'Sordello'  that  I  ever  heard  was  once  de 
livered  by  the  Browning  lecturer  of  the  Chicago 
University  Extension  course.  He  said  that 
there  were  only  two  intelligible  lines  in  the 
whole  poem,  the  first  and  the  last,  and  that  each 
of  these  contained  a  lie!"  With  which  astound 
ing  statement  she  bowed  to  Mrs.  Callaway  and 
went  back  to  her  seat. 

The  fact  that  her  husband  burst  out  laughing 
was  very  disquieting  to  the  President.  She 
had  never  read  "Sordello,"  therefore  the  joke 
was  lost  on  her,  but  a  hasty  glance  at  the 
audience  convinced  her  that  the  other  ladies 
were  in  the  same  predicament.  She  was  a 
woman  of  resources.  She  smiled,  suppressed 
that  smile,  rose,  and  tried  to  speak,  but  her 
104 


The  Chattahoochee  Woman's  Club 

amusement  prevented  her.  When  she  finally 
succeeded,  she  said : 

"Miz  Summahs,  won't  you  quote  those 
lines  for  the  Club  to  refresh  thah  memories?" 

She  shook  her  head  at  Mrs.  Summers  as  if 
to  say  she  was  a  sad  wag,  and  Mrs.  Summers 
from  her  place  in  the  audience  rose  and  said: 

"  The  first  line  is : 

"'Who  will  may  hear  Sordello's  story  told;' 

And  the  last  is : 

" '  Who  would  has  heard  Sordello's  story  told. 

They  each  contain  a  lie,  because  you  can't  un 
derstand  it  to  save  your  life.  I  accuse  Brown 
ing  of  wilful  obscurity,  and  am  free  to  say  that 
certain  of  his  poems  I  will  not  bother  with!" 

A  few  startled  gasps  came  out  here  and  there ; 
then  one  woman  laughed  and  clapped  her 
hands.  Another  hesitatingly  followed  suit, 
and  soon  a  wave  of  laughter  and  applause 
swept  over  the  audience. 

Miss  Baxter  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"  I  second  what  Mrs.  Summers  has  said,  and 
I  quote  as  my  reason  this  line  from  '  Rabbi  Ben 
Ezra ' : 

"  '  Irks  care  the  crop-full  bird  ?     Frets  doubt  the  maw- 
crammed  beast?'  " 

105 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

Mr.  Summers  began  to  be  disappointed  at 
the  laughter  this  sally  evoked.  He  had  come 
to  see  these  women  take  themselves  seriously. 

Mrs.  Spaulding,  the  Methodist  clergyman's 
wife,  came  to  the  platform,  trembling  with 
emotion  and  excitement.  She  wondered  if  she, 
too,  dared  to  be  honest?  She  laid  her  roll  of 
manuscript,  fastened  with  a  rubber  band,  on 
the  President's  desk  and  said : 

"Ladies,  I  too  shall  dah  to  speak  mah  mind 
freely.  I  can't  understand  a  word  of  '  Caliban 
upon  Setebos/  I  don't  know  who  Caliban  was, 
noh  whethah  Setebos  was  a  writah  whose  theo 
ries  he  was  considerin',  or  what  it  was!  His 
theories  of  religion  seem  a  little  advanced,  but, 
aftah  all,  I  am  not  sure  that  any  of  us  knows 
what  she  really  does  believe.  I  simply  ask 
you  all  to  go  home  and  read  the  poem  and  tell 
me  what  it  means  1" 

An  explosion  could  not  have  caused  a  greater 
sensation.  Fans  rustled,  cheeks  grew  pink, 
eyes  sparkled,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  whisper 
ing  the  delegate  who  had  attended  the  Denver 
Convention  rose  and  was  greeted  with  the 
Chautauqua  salute. 

"I  am  not  going  to  the  platform;  I  am  not 

even  going  to  read  my  report.     I  will  save  it 

for  the  next  time.     Ladies,  I  will  not  interrupt 

the  spirit  of  this  meeting.     To  my  surprise  I 

1 06 


The  Chattahoochee  Woman's  Club 

return  from  the  most  enlightened  body  of  women 
in  America  to  find  my  own  little  modest  club 
abloom  with  enterprise  and  progress.  You 
have  done  wonders  in  my  absence.  You  are 
daring  to  speak  the  truth.  You  may  not  be 
lieve  it,  but  you  are  doing  just  as  good  work 
here  to-day  as  any  session  could  boast  at  that 
great  •  convention  I  have  just  attended.  We 
have  been  old  fogy  in  our  methods.  We 
have  been  backwoodsy,  but  we  are  breaking 
away  from  traditions  and  we  are  coming  out 
into  the  light  of  day.  I  have  heard  very  few 
of  you  quote  what  your  husbands  thought. 
That,  too,  is  a  step  towards  freedom!  You 
have  done  well  in  combining  womanliness 
with  progress  in  declaring  for  the  purity  of  the 
home,  in  barring  certain  poisonous  writahs 
from  our  study  course  and  substituting  those 
who  could  be  read  aloud  in  the  bosom  of  the 
family  without  a  blush,  from  the  baby  in  the 
cradle  to  the  aged  grandmother  in  the  chimney 
corner.  Your  course  I  would  define  as  masterly 
yet  womanly,  and  I  would  suggest  that  as  a 
club  motto — 'Masterly  yet  womanly!'  It  only 
remains  for  me  to  congratulate  your  progress 
towards  modern  thought  and  to  take  my  seat." 
A  perfect  storm  of  gentle,  gloved  applause 
shook  the  air  as  the  delegate  subsided.  The 
excitement  was  intense.  The  Episcopal  rector's 
107 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

wife  moved  over  to  Mrs.  Spaulding  and  whis 
pered  to  her. 

Then  Mrs.  Spaulding  rose.  Her  voice  trem 
bled  with  feeling. 

"  We  are  in  line  at  last,  ladies !  No  one  can 
deny  it  who  has  been  here  to-day.  We  have 
shaken  off  the  shackles  of  tradition  and  have 
come  out  boldly  into  the  light.  May  I  ask 
the  President  to  set  aside  the  rules  and  close 
this  meetin'  with  a  pray-ah." 

This  suggestion  met  with  such  approval 
that  bonnets  nodded  their  assent  before  Mrs. 
Callaway  put  the  question. 

"  I  would  suggest  that  we  all  rise  and  repeat 
the  Lawd's  Pray-ah  in  unison,"  she  began, 
but,  to  everybody's  surprise,  little,  timid  Mrs. 
Peebles,  the  rector's  wife,  anxious  to  free  her 
spirit  also,  rose  and  said : 

"  In  the  spirit  of  this  afternoon's  work,  might 
I  suggest,  not  the  Lawd's  Pray-ah,  but  some- 
thin'  a  —  a  little  moh  modern  !  I  ask  Miz 
Spauldin'  to  make  up  one  as  she  goes  along." 

Thus  Mrs.  Peebles  broke  away  from  the  ritual, 
and  the  ladies  of  the  Chattahoochee  Woman's 
Club  bowed  their  heads. 


I  t 


Yessum" 


44  Yessum 


N  Saturday  afternoon  the  "wash" 
of  the  Northern  delegates  to  the 
Baptist  Convention  was  being  borne 
through  the  streets  of  Memphis  on 
the  heads  of  two  portly,  pendulous  colored 
women.  Owing  to  the  size  of  the  great,  soft, 
white  bundles  they  balanced  so  deftly,  they 
walked  on  the  extreme  edges  of  the  brick  pave 
ment,  and  even  then,  as  they  were  out  of  step, 
their  head-pieces  swayed  to  and  from  each  other 
with  rhythmic  regularity. 

"What  you  gwine  do,  Sist'  Richidy,  if  dem 
Northern  ladies  gibs  you  fits  'bout  scorchin' 
dat  skirt?" 

"I  ain't  skeered  'bout  what  dem  Northern 
ladies  gwine  say  to  me  'bout  nothin',  Sist' 
Golden,"  retorted  the  other.  "Don'  you  know 
dey  says  dat  colored  folks  is  jis  as  good  as  white 
folks  is,  an'  dat  up  Norf  if  a  colored  lady  got  a 
in 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

silk  dress  she  gits  invited  to  de  white  folks' 
pahties  jis  like  de  quality?" 

"Git  out  wid  you,  Sist'  Richidy.  I  ain'  no 
such  softy  as  to  b'lieve  yo'  fool  talk." 

'  'Tain't  no  fool  talk,  Sist'  Golden.  Hit's  de 
Gawd's  own  trufe.  'Cordin'  to  dat,  de  ladies 
gwine  say  nottin'  to  me  'bout  dat  scorched  skirt, 
'caze  it  would  be  lake  deir  sassin'  one  anurr. 
An'  if  dey  did  talk  sassy  to  me,"  she  added, 
emboldened  by  the  other's  evident  admiration, 
"I'd  jess  up  an'  sass  'em  back.  'Deed  I  would. 
If  dey  tink  I'm  as  good  as  dey  is,  I  jes  gwine 
show  'em  dat  I  is." 

"For  de  lan's  sake,  Sist'  Richidy,  I  never  did 
see  you  so  uppity  befo'.  But  I  reckon  you 
wouldn't  dare  talk  so  if  it  was  ole  Mis'  Beau- 
champ's  ruffled  petticoat  you  done  burnt." 

"Lawd,  Sist'  Golden,  I  reckon  not!"  cried 
the  woman.  "Mis'  Beauchamp  is  de  quality, 
one  of  de  sho'  nuff  high-steppin'  ladies.  I 
don't  reckon  de  time  will  ever  come  when  we'll 
hyer  huh  a-claimin'  dat  niggers  is  her  equals. 
She  hoi's  dat  haid  up  as  high  as  she  ever  done 
when  de  Beauchamps  owned  de  whole  place. 
An'  when  she  comes  in  town  she  lifts  her  dress 
an'  picks  her  way  lake  she  jis'  'spise  to  touch 
de  dirt  wid  dem  lill  foots  of  hers.  She  got  a 
look  in  her  eyes,  ole  as  she  is,  much  as  to  say, 
'  You  niggers,  step  roun'  hyer.  You  may  be  as 
112 


'Yessum" 

good  as  de  Northern  ladies,  but  as  for  me,  you 
has  been  my  slaves,  an'  in  my  min'  you  is  still.' 
To  be  sho',  de  Beauchamps  never  owned  any  of 
us,  but  I  kin  tell  quality,  fur's  I  see  'em,  an' 
Mis'  Beauchamp  is  quality.  You  cain't  say  no 
mo',  Sist'  Golden." 

"'Deed  you  cain't,  Sist'  Richidy.  I  reckon 
'caze  de  Beauchamps  used  to  own  Mandy's 
maw  is  one  reason  why  she  is  so  biggoty  she 
won't  hab  nuthin'  to  do  wid  us.  I  'clar  to  you, 
Sist'  Richidy,  hit  do  mek  me  mad  to  see  what 
airs  dat  Mandy  Tice  do  gib  herself.  Yonder 
she  is  now,  standin'  in  de  do'way,  lookin'  for 
Yessum.  She  watches  dat  chile  lake  she  was  a 
white  lady  an'  him  huh  onliest  son.  Bress  my 
soul,  if  I  gits  my  chillen  all  togerr  awn  Saddy 
night  to  wash  'em  for  Sunday,  I'm  a-doin'  well. 
I  ain't  got  de  time  to  traipse  after  'em  de  way 
Mandy  does." 

They  came  to  a  neat  little  cottage  set  in  a  tidy 
yard  filled  with  flowers  of  all  descriptions.  A 
balloon  vine  clambered  over  the  door  and  win 
dows,  and  shook  its  pale  -  green  pods  in  the 
fragrant  air.  An  ironing  -  board  was  visible 
through  the  front  door,  supported  by  a  chair- 
back  and  the  high  foot-board  of  the  bed  on 
which  lay  an  aged  dying  negress. 

"Howdy,  Sist'  Tice,"  they  called  out  to  the 
woman  in  the  door. 

H  113 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

"  Howdy,  Sist'  Richidy.  Howdy,  Sist'  Golden. 
How  you  all  to-day?" 

"Tol'bul  middlin',  thank  you,  Sist'  Tice. 
How's  you'  maw?" 

"  Maw  is  right  po'ly  to-day,  thank  you,  Sist' 
Richidy.  Her  laigs  has  begun  to  swell." 

"Del  Law,  I'se  sorry  to  hear  dat,  Sist'  Tice. 
Give  her  my  best  respects,  if  you  please,  ma'am, 
an'  tell  her  I'll  step  in  awn  my  way  home  and 
tell  her  howdy." 

"  Thank  you,  Sist'  Richidy,"  said  the  woman, 
in  a  cooler  tone,  "but  I  don'  reckon  you  kin  see 
maw  to-day.  She  ain't  hardly  well  enough. 
She's  restless  and  quivery." 

"Umph!  Well,  you  knows  bes',  Sist'  Tice. 
Good-evenin'." 

"Good-evenin',  Sist' Richidy,  Sist'  Golden." 

"De  proud-faced,  col'-hearted  nigger,"  mut 
tered  Silvy  Richidy  as  they  passed  on.  "She 
needn'  be  so  'fraid  I'll  git  to  see  de  inside  ob  dat 
house  ob  hers.  When  huh  maw  dies,  she'll  be 
'bleeged  to  hab  us  to  de  funeral." 

"Has  dey  foun'  out  what's  de  matter  wid 
her?"  asked  Sist'  Golden. 

"De  las'  I  heard,  ole  Mis'  Beauchamp  done 
sont  her  own  doctor  to  see  her.  He  prognosti 
cated  dat  she  won'  live  long.  He  say  her  com 
plaint  is  kinder  lake  de  serious  ole  final-come- 
an-git-us — only  not  so  swif  as  dat." 
114 


'Yessum" 

"You  don'  say.  I  'clar  to  gracious,  Sist' 
Richidy,  how  much  you  do  know!" 

"I  knows  one  t'ing,"  answered  Sist'  Richidy, 
in  a  sudden  burst  of  rage,  "an'  dat  is  dat  I 
jes'  'spise  dat  Mandy  Tice.  She  is  so  mean  an' 
avaricious  she  wuck  day  an'  night,  savin'  up 
her  money  an'  savin'  it  lake  she  was  white. 
She's  got  de  sin  ob  avarjciousness,  if  anybody 
ever  had.  De  Lawd  knows  what  she's  savin' 
huh  money  for — I  don't.  She  don'  buy  no  clo'es, 
she  don'  go  to  de  picnics,  she  don'  go  to  corn- 
roasts  nor  barbecues,  nor  even  to  de  babtizin's 
for  fear  dey'll  take  up  a  collection.  She  don' 
allow  herself  no  pleasure  'tall,  she's  so  skeert 
she'll  spend  a  nickel,  an'  when  my  second 
husband  was  hung,  do  you  know  dat  woman 
wouldn't  leab  off  half  a  day's  ironin'  to  go  to 
de  hangin'?" 

"Hit's  lowerin',  Sist'  Richidy,"  responded 
Sister  Golden.  "  Dat's  what  it  is ;  hit's  lowerin'  I 
I  wouldn't  pay  no  'tention  to  sich  a  unnatural 
'ooman." 


II 


Still  standing  in  the  doorway  of  her  cabin, 
where  they  had  left  her,  and  looking  after  their 
retreating  forms  with  ill-disguised  contempt — 
the  contempt  which  all  high-class  negroes  heap 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

upon  the  baser  born — Mandy  Tice  raised  her 
voice  and  called. 

"  Yessum !  Oh-h,  Yessum !  Whar  awn  earth 
is  dat  chile?" 

She  waited  a  few  moments,  regardless  of 
her  cooling  iron,  then  called  again. 

A  little  figure  carne  flying  down  the  street, 
panting  artificially,  as  if  he  had  been  running 
since  daybreak. 

"You,  Yessum,  whah  you  been  all  dis 
time?" 

The  child  screwed  his  knuckles  into  his  eyes 
and  opened  his  mouth  in  a  sudden  mighty  roar. 
His  mouth  was  cavernous. 

"Quit  yo'  bellerin'!"  commanded  his  mother, 
in  disgust.  "Do  you  want  to  scare  yo'  po' 
ole  dyin'  Granny  into  a  fit?  Do  yo'  want  to 
send  her  into  Glory  all  a-foamin'  at  de  mouf 
an'  writhin'  up  de  golden  streets  lake  a  garter- 
snake?" 

Yessum  stopped  instantly  and  darted  dex 
terously  under  the  ironing-board  to  the  bedside 
of  his  grandmother,  whom  he  loved  devotedly. 
He  looked  at  her  familiar  wrinkled  face  anx 
iously  to  see  if  any  such  hideous  phenomenon 
were  taking  place.  But  the  poor  old  creature 
was  the  same  as  he  had  left  her.  Her  palsied 
hand  shook  as  she  lifted  Yessum's  little  black 
paw  to  her  lips. 

116 


'Yessum" 

"Whah  you  been,  son?"  she  asked.  "Yo' 
po'  ole  Granny  mighty  lonesome  widout  her 
lill  feller  a-runnin'  in  an'  out  de  do'/' 

"I'se  been  wid  Marse  Rob  Beauchamp, 
Granny.  He  done  bought  a  razor  an'  was 
try  in'  to  shave  hisseff." 

Mandy  returned  to  her  ironing. 

"I  knew  it,"  she  said.  "I  knew  dat  chile 
was  taggin'  round  after  Marse  Rob.  It  do 
look  lake  he  done  bewitched  de  chile.  Cain't 
you  keep  away  fom  him  one  minute,  specially 
when  I  sends  you  awn  a  errand  an'  tells  you  to 
hurry?" 

"  Let  de  chile  alone,  Mandy  honey.  He  cain't 
he'p  it.  Hit's  in  de  blood  de  way  we  all  love  de 
Beauchamps.  Befo'  you  was  bawn,  I  use  to 
pray  to  de  good  Lawd  to  make  my  child  a  faith 
ful  servant  of  His,  an'  he'p  it  to  love  de  Beau- 
champs.  I  reckon  I  done  marked  my  chillen 
wid  love  for  de  Beauchamps.  Tell  Granny 
'bout  Marse  Rob's  razor,  chile." 

"  Well'm,  he  tole  me  dat  for  two  years — " 

"  De  Lawd  hab  mussy  awn  my  soul,  Yessum, 
quit  openin'  yo'  mouf  so  wide.  You  ought  to 
hab  mo'  respeck  fo'  yo'  mudder's  feelin's.  How 
you  reckon  hit  mek  me  feel  to  see  you  open  dat 
mouf,  size  ob  a  stove-lid?  Fust  t'ing  you  know, 
you'll  spile  de  shape  on  it.  Begin  ovah  now, 
an'  see  if  you  cain't  wuk  yo'  mouf  little  an' 
117 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

pretty  de  way  Mis'  Beauchamp  does.  Begin 
ovah  now." 

"  Well'm,  Marse  Rob  been  goin'  to  de  barber's 
for  'bout  two  years  now,  but  he  say  hit  ain't 
no  use.  A  man  mus'  hab  a  razah  ob  his  own. 
So  he  tuk  me  wid  him  when  he  buyed  it,  an' 
I  went  clean  home  to  de  gate  wid  him,  an'  dat's 
all." 

"Bress  his  handsome  face!"  murmured 
Granny.  "He  jes  like  his  paw  —  so  big  an' 
brave  an'  venturesome.  When  Marse  Rob 
gwine  to  Nashville,  son?" 

"He  say  he  gwine  to-morrow,  Granny," 
answered  the  boy. 

"How  long  did  you  hang  aroun'  dat  gate, 
waitin'  for  Marse  Rob  to  come  out  agin?"  asked 
Mandy. 

"Not  long,  mammy,  'caze  Mis'  Beauchamp 
come  out  soon,  an'  she  axed  me  was .  de  cloze 
done,  an'  I  telled  her  'Yessum,'  an'  pulled  off 
my  hat  lake  you  done  telled  me  to,  an'  she  say 
she  glad  ob  it,  'caze  she  want  dat  black-an'- 
white  muslin  to  wear  at  five  o'clock." 

Mandy  glanced  hurriedly  at  the  clock,  then 
reached  Yessum  with  a  swift  slap. 

"Why,  Mandy!"  said  Granny. 

"Dat  no  'count  chile!"  cried  Mandy,  spread 
ing  a  sheet  on  the  floor  and  beginning  to  pile 
the  dainty,  ruffled  things  into  it.  "Foolin' 
118 


'Yessum" 

'roun'  hyer  half  a  hour  wid  Mis'  Beauchamp 
wantin'  her  dress,  an'  he  nuvver  tole  me.  I 
got  a  mine  to  lick  you,  Yessum  Tice  !  You 
de  mos'  vexatious  chile  I  ever  see." 

Mandy  seldom  hurried  unless  she  had  to, 
but  her  motions  just  now  made  Yessum  creep 
closer  to  Granny's  bedside  until  his  mother's 
anger  cooled  somewhat. 

Mandy  flew  around,  raised  Granny's  head, 
poured  her  medicine  down  so  fast  that  the 
poor  old  woman  choked  and  gasped,  gave  her 
pillow  a  shake,  laid  her  down  again,  twitched 
the  bedclothes  into  place,  and,  bidding  Yessum 
stay  around  the  house  and  tend  to  his  Granny 
until  she  got  back,  Mandy  stepped  outside  the 
door,  swung  the  bundle  to  her  head,  balanced 
it,  and  began  her  stately  march  down  the  street 
towards  the  home  of  Mrs.  Beauchamp. 

Granny  lay  quiet  a  moment,  then  she  opened 
her  eyes  and  began  to  sniff. 

"What  dat  I  smells,  honey?  Smells  lake 
woollen  burnin'.  See  ef  yo'  mammy  didn' 
leabe  her  holder  awn  de  iron  somewhere." 

Yessum  peered  around,  following  his  nose 
until  he  spied  it. 

"Yessum,  she  did.  But  I  done  took  it  off. 
Hit  was  mos'  blazin'!" 

"Po'  Mandy/'  sighed  Granny.  "She  does 
git  so  out  ob  patience  ef  t'ings  don'  go  to  suit 
119 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

Mis'  Beauchamp.  You  mus'  try  to  'member 
better,  son." 

"Yessum,  I  will,  Granny.  Say,  Granny,  ef 
I  gits  you  de  camphor  bottle,  you  reckon  you 
feel  lake  tellin'  me  'bout  how  Colonel  Beau- 
champ  buyed  my  gran' paw?" 

"Yes,  git  me  de  camphor  an'  I'll  try." 

The  poor  old  creature  sniffed  at  the  camphor 
a  moment,  then  began  her  story. 

She  fixed  her  faded  eyes  on  the  ceiling  as  if 
she  saw  again  the  great  plantation,  the  swarms 
of  negroes,  the  horses,  carriages,  and  guests 
among  whom  her  far-away  youth  had  been 
passed.  Alas,  the  trim  figure  she  was  in  those 
days  would  never  have  been  recognized  in  the 
pain-twisted  form  lying  so  small  and  helpless 
upon  her  snowy  bed.  Her  toothless  gums 
and  loose  mouth  made  her  words  indistinct  at 
times,  but  Yessum  was  so  familiar  with  the 
story  that  he  understood  it  all. 

"I  was  give  to  Mis'  Beauchamp  ever  sence 
she  was  born,"  she  began,  "when  she  was  Miss 
Irene  Newsome,  wid  de  meanes',  pepperies'  ole 
paw  you  ever  hearn  tell  of.  Her  maw  was 
daid,  an'  nobody  could  do  nothin'  wid  him 
'cept  jes  Miss  Irene.  He  was  powerful  mean 
to  his  niggers,  an'  hit  was  a  long  time  befo' 
he  would  let  me  an  Alec  git  mah'ed.  Not 
becaze  he  objected  to  de  match,  but  jes  'caze 
120 


'Yessum" 

it  was  his  way  to  say  'no'  to  everything  fust 
an'  den  low  hisseff  to  be  coaxed  'roun'  after 
wards,  so's  we  would  be  mo'  thankful  an' 
obligated  to  him.  But  my  Alec  was  a  peart 
young  feller,  an'  he  wouldn't  stan'  it  to  be 
imposed  awn.  He  was  a  good  an'  faithful 
servant,  an',  'ceptin'  dat  his  eyes  blazed  out  awn 
'casions,  you  couldn't  tell  dat  he  felt  t'ings  mos' 
lake  white  folks.  Old  Marse  Newsome  ain't 
never  had  Alec  whupped,  an'  Alec  lived  de  whole 
ob  his  life  a-fearin'  dat  de  time  would  come 
when  de  lash  would  fall  awn  him  for  de  fust 
time.  'Feared  lake  Marse  Newsome  sort  of 
knowed  somepin  would  happen  ef  he  ever  had 
Alec  whupped,  'caze  he  never  give  de  order,  while 
mighty  nigh  every  other  nigger  awn  de  place 
'cept  jes  me  an'  Alec  had  a  tas'e  of  de  lash.  Alec 
was  powerful  proud  an'  quivery,  lake  some 
fine  horses  we  used  to  own.  Hit  looked  to  me 
lake  dey  too  used  to  be  watchin'  an'  fearin' 
de  whip  an'  hopin'  dat  dere  nashin'  eye  an' 
thin  skin  an'  high  -  steppin'  ways  gwine  buy 
their  freedom  from  what  we  'bleeged  to  give 
common  horses.  Miss  Irene  knowed  how  we 
bofe  feel,  an'  she  used  to  stan'  between  us  an' 
her  paw,  when  he'd  git  dem  tantrums;  'caze 
she  knowed  somepin  gwine  break  loose  ef  me 
or  Alec  got  whupped. 

"  But  one  day  hit  come.     It  was  Miss  Irene 
121 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

her  own  sweet  seff  what  tole  me.  'Po'  Lizzie,' 
she  say,  throwin'  her  pretty  white  arm  roun' 
my  wais'.  '  Po'  Lizzie.  Alec  done  been  whup- 
ped.'  An'  wid  dat  she  begin  cryin'  lake  it  was 
her  Alec  stidder  mine.  An'  dare  we  stood,  de 
black  'ooman  an'  de  white  lady,  cryin'  over  de 
wrongs  ob  po'  Alec,  jis  same  lake  he  was  white. 
Hit  was  dark  den,  an'  while  we  was  talkin' 
it  over,  dere  come  a  handful  of  yearth  th'owed 
up  at  de  window,  an'  I  run,  'caze  I  know  dat 
was  Alec's  way  of  callin'  me. 

"  He  whisper  to  me  to  let  him  in.  Miss  Irene 
look  over  my  shoulder  an'  whisper  back, '  Come 
awn,  po',  good  Alec.  It's  only  me.  It's  only 
yo'  unhappy  Miss  Irene.  Let  me  speak  to 
yo'!'  Wid  dat  he  climb  up  de  piazza  roof  an' 
step  in  at  de  window.  I  never  see  sich  a  face. 
'Peared  lake  I  see  him  now  as  he  stood  befo' 
us  two  awn  dat  night.  Hit  look  lake  his  heart 
done  broke,  an'  yit  mad!  He  was  mad  clean 
thoo.  He  tole  us  he  gwine  run  away.  I  was 
so  skeered  when  I  hear  him  say  dat  befo'  Miss 
Irene,  but,  to  my  s'prise,  she  say, '  I'se  glad  of  it, 
Alec;  I'll  he'p  you.'  An'  wid  dat  she  gib  him 
money  an'  tole  him  whah  to  go,  an'  dey  dis 
cuss  plans  wid  each  other,  tell  Alec  want  to 
kneel  at  Miss  Irene's  feet,  he  so  thankful  to 
her  for  her  sweet  ways. 

"So  Alec  run  off.  Ol'  Marse  Newsome  was 
122 


'Yessum" 

rarin',  pitchin'  mad  when  he  hear  ob  it.  But  he 
didn't  seem  to  do  nothin'  'bout  it  dat  we  could 
fine  out. 

"  Marse  Beauchamp,  from  de  nex'  plantation, 
was  daid  in  love  wid  Miss  Irene,  an'  jes  at  dis 
time  she  'cided  she'd  mah'y  him,  an'  dey  was 
engaged.  Ole  Marse  Newsome  mighty  pleased 
at  de  fine  match  his  lill  daughter  gwine  mek, 
'caze  he  was  de  riches'  an  de  bes'-lookin'  young 
man,  an'  she  de  riches'  an'  de  beautifulest  young 
lady  in  de  county. 

"Dey  was  great  times  den  'bout  de  engage 
ment.  Sich  pahties  an'  picnics  an'  doin's  you 
never  heard  tell  of.  Dey  don'  hab  sich  things 
anywhere  now-days  lake  we  used  to  hab. 

"  Me  an'  Miss  Irene  used  to  talk  a  heap  'bout 
Alec,  and  wished  we'd  hyer  from  him,  tell  one 
day  de  niggers  tell  me  dat  word  come  dat  dey 
done  cotch  Alec  wid  bloodhoun's,  an'  was  bring- 
in'  him  back  to  be  sold  at  auction." 

Granny's  weak  voice  quivered  and  broke  at 
the  remembrance  of  her  anguish  of  so  many 
years  ago.  Yessum's  little  black  face  was 
sparkling  and  working  in  sympathy.  He 
clutched  Granny's  hand  tighter,  and  she  went 
on: 

'"Feared  lake  somepin  give  way  inside  me 
when  I  heard  dat.  I  could  'a'  killed  Marse  New- 
some,  to  put  dat  indignity  awn  me  an'  my  Alec. 
123 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

I  had  good  blood  in  me,  an'  it  jis  boil  at  de  in 
sult  an'  de  grief  an'  de  worryment  of  what  Alec 
gwine  do. 

"Miss  Irene's  black  eyes  fairly  blaze  when  I 
tole  her.  She  never  said  one  word.  Jis  th'owed 
her  proud  lill  head  back  an'  clinch  her  han's 
an'  draw  her  breath  a-hissin',  lake  she  done 
stood  all  she  gwine  to.  Den  she  say, '  Lizzie,  go 
tell  Markus  to  saddle  Lolly  Rook'  —  dat's  de 
name  ob  her  roan  mare — '  an'  hab  her  out  at  de 
big  gate  jis  as  soon  as  it's  dark.  Tell  him  to 
hab  Billy  saddled  an'  waitin'  for  him  a  mile 
down  de  road,  'caze  he  mus'  go  wid  me,  an', 
Lizzie,  tell  him  hit's  as  much  as  his  life  is  worth 
if  he  lets  anybody,  even  de  other  servants, 
know/  I  baig  her  to  tell  me  what  she  gwine 
do,  but  she  won't.  She  knowed  I'd  be  too 
skeered.  Den  she  put  awn  a  white  dress  an'  a 
red  rose  in  her  hair,  an'  goes  singin'  down-stairs 
to  'muse  her  paw  tell  he  git  sleepy.  She  fix  him 
in  his  mos'  comf 'table  chair,  an'  give  him  a  book 
an'  a  cigar.  Den  she  say  she  sing  an'  play  for 
him.  She  know  mighty  well  dat  all  dat  gwine 
put  him  to  sleep,  jis  lake  it  done.  Den  she  creep 
up-stairs  an'  put  awn  her  habit,  an'  off  she  go. 
An'  do  you  know,  Beauregard  Beauchamp  Tice, 
dat  lill  miss  of  mine  rode  all  de  \vay  to  Marse 
Beauchamp's  plantation,  an'  foun'  him,  an'  mek 
all  de  'rangements  for  his  agent  to  mek  out 
124 


"Yessum" 

he's  from  N'Orleans,  an'  buy  my  Alec  at  de 
auction  nex'  day.  She  never  got  home  tell  day 
break,  wid  me  settin'  up  all  night  watchin'  for 
her,  an'  skeered  plumb  sick  wid  anxiety.  Dot 
what  Miss  Irene  done  ! 

"  It  all  turned  out  jis  lake  she  fixed.  Dey  was 
mah'ed  soon  after,  an'  ol'  Marse  Newsome  never 
foun'  out  tell  after  de  weddin',  an'  me  an'  Alec 
was  togerr  'gin,  dat  Marse  Beauchamp  done 
bought  in  Alec  to  please  Miss  Irene.  He  never 
did  fin'  out  '  bout  dat  venturesome  ride  ob  hers. 

"  Den  three  years  go  by,  wid  us  all  so  happy 
at  bein'  togerr,  hit  jis  seem  too  good  to  las'.  But 
I  got  to  broodin'  over  bein'  a  slave,  an'  bein' 
owned.  'Feared  lake  de  devil  jis  got  wuckin' 
in  me  to  spile  my  peace  ob  min'.  I  done  hab 
spells  ob  dis  befo',  but  it  never  come  so  near 
killin'  me  as  when  I  brood  over  de  fack  dat  my 
chile  gwine  be  bawn  a  slave. 

"Miss  Irene's  first  chile  done  come,  de  paw 
of  yo'  Marse  Rob  Beauchamp.  You  ain't  never 
seen  him,  'caze  he  was  killed  endurin'  de  waw. 
We  all  was  mighty  proud  ob  de  chile,  an'  some 
times  I'd  set  an'  watch  him  asleep  in  his  lill 
cradle  all  hung  wid  lace  an'  blue  silk,  an'  con- 
tras'  his  lot  wid  my  po'  lill  baby  what  got  to 
come  into  de  worl'  to  be  owned  by  dat  lill  white 
chile  I  was  watchin'.  I  tells  yo',  Beauregard, 
you  always  been  free,  so  you  cain't  understan' ; 
125 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

but  hit's  de  wust  feelin'  in  de  whole  worl'  to  feel 
dat  you's  a  slave.  Miss  Irene  come  awn  me 
one  day  when  I  was  feelin'  dat  way,  an'  she  ax 
me  de  trouble,  an'  I  jis  ups  an'  tole  her.  She 
look  awhile  at  me  an'  den  at  her  lill  pink,  pretty 
baby  sleepin'  so  sweet  in  his  lill  bade,  an'  she 
say,  'To-morrow  dat  chile  will  be  a  year  ole, 
Lizzie.  We  mus'  gib  him  a  birthday.'  Dat's 
all  she  said.  But  she  went  into  de  room  where 
Marse  Beauchamp  was  cleanin'  his  gun,  an' 
she  hoi'  de  eend  ob  it  while  he  polish  de  barrel. 
I  walk  by  de  do'  an'  seen  'em.  Dey  quit  talkin' 
when  dey  see  me,  but  de  nex'  day  Miss  Irene 
took  de  baby  in  her  arms  an'  brought  him  up 
to  me  all  a-smilin'  an'  a-laffm',  an'  she  say, 
'Gib  Lizzie  de  paper,  darlin'.'  But  de  lill  feller 
hoi'  awn  tight  an'  begin'  to  chew  de  envellup, 
'caze  his  lill  toofs  hurt  him.  'No,  lamb,  give 
it  to  Lizzie/  she  say.  He  won'  do  it,  so  she  tek 
his  lill  hand  in  hers  an'  mek  him  hoi'  out  de 
paper  to  me.  'Take  hit,  Lizzie,'  she  say,  wid 
her  big  black  eyes  all  a-brimmin'  up  wid  tears. 
'  Hit  is  my  boy's  fust  birthday.  He  meks  you 
an'  Alec  free  from  dis  day. ' 

"  I  tek  dat  precious  paper  in  bofe  my  han's. 
Freedom  for  Alec  an'  me!  We  was  free!  No- 
body  owned  us !  We  was  free  as  you  is  dis  day. 
Free  as  Miss  Irene  an'  Marse  Beauchamp.  An' 
bress  de  good  Gawd,  my  chile  could  be  bawn  free ! 
126 


'Yessum" 

"I  jis  fell  down  awn  de  flo'  an'  kiss  Miss 
Irene's  lill  foots.  Den  Alec  an'  Marse  Beau- 
champ  speak  from  de  do'way,  where  dey  been 
standin'  an'  watchin'  to  see  what  fool  t'ing  I 
gwine  do.  Alec's  face  was  a-shinin'  lake  he'd 
done  'sperienced  religion.  '  Go  liff  her  up,  Alec,' 
Marse  Beauchamp  he  say.  An'  Alec  pick  me 
up  off  de  flo'  where  I  was  laffin'  an'  cryin'  lake 
I  was  crazy.  An'  he  hoi'  me  tight,  an'  whisper 
in  my  year  dat  dis  was  de  happies'  moment  of 
his  life,  'cept  de  day  when  he  mah'ed  me.  An' 
when  we  look  aroun'  an'  'pologize  for  bein'  so 
foolish,  we  all  laff  'loud  to  see  Marse  Beauchamp 
an'  Miss  Irene  bein'  foolish  jis  same  as  we  is, 
wid  de  baby  tryin'  to  stick  he  finger  in  he 
paw's  eye! 

"An'  dat's  de  story  ob  huccome  we  all  wuz 
free,  long  befo'  de  waw  come  to  free  all  de  slaves. 
We  was  free  in  slave  times ! 

"We  stay  awn  wid  'em  jis  de  same,  an'  my 
other  chillen  all  born  free,  wid  yo'  mammy 
Mandy,  de  baby,  an'  de  las'  ob  de  lot. 

"De  years  roll  awn,  an'  our  chillen,  Miss 
Irene's  an'  mine,  grow  up.  Den  come  a  new 
president  what  talk  'bout  freein'  all  de  slaves. 
Den  come  talk  of  waw.  Den,  Gawd  hab  mussy, 
de  waw  come,  an'  me  an'  Miss  Irene  see  our  hus- 
ban's  an'  our  chillen  march  away,  an'  some  never 
come  back.  Marse  Charles  never  come  back. 
127 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

Marse  Gordon  never  come  back.  One  by  one 
her  chillen  die,  tell  she  ain't  got  but  one  gran'son 
left — yo'  Marse  Rob.  An'  for  me,  out  ob  all 
mine,  I  only  got  you  an'  Mandy. 

"  When  waw  come  we  never  dream  hit  gwine 
tetch  us,  but  de  plantation  lay  in  de  way  ob  de 
army,  an'  dey  burn  de  house,  an'  ransack  an' 
destroy  tell  de  Beauchamps  ain't  got  much 
leff,  'ceptin'  de  silver  what  me  an'  Alec  buried 
for  'em.  All  dat  will  go  to  Marse  Rob  Beau- 
champ,  Miss  Irene's  younges'  an'  onlies'  gran'- 
chile  she  got  leff.  De  po'  lill  miss  !  She's 
leff  all  alone  in  de  worl'  wid  jes  dat  one  chile. 
But  he  is  de  livin'  image  of  Marse  Beauchamp, 
his  gran' paw,  an'  he  was  de  fines'  an'  de  hand- 
somes'  man  I  ever  see.  Marse  Rob  got  all  de 
high  spirit  ob  de  Beauchamps.  Hit  ain't  no 
wonder  you  tag  round  after  him.  Yo'  maw 
mustn't  scold  you  for  it.  Hit's  in  de  blood,  de 
way  we  all  loves  de  Beauchamps." 

Granny's  weak  voice  failed  many  times  dur 
ing  the  recital.  Yessum  held  the  camphor 
where  she  could  smell  it.  It  seemed  to  revive 
her.  But  when  she  finished  she  lay  so  still, 
with  her  eyes  closed  and  her  breathing  so  faint, 
he  could  not  see  the  quiver  of  the  frill  on  her 
white  nightgown. 

"Granny,  Granny,"  he  whispered. 

Suddenly  the  old  woman  opened  her  eyes. 
128 


"Did  you  call,  Alec?"  she  said.  "Who 
wants  Lizzie?  Tell  Miss  Irene  I'se  a-cominV 

She  tried  to  raise  herself.  Yessum  glanced 
around  the  empty  room  apprehensively. 

"She's  wanderin',"  he  said  to  himself. 

"Yes,  Miss  Irene/'  she  cried.  "Fse  jis 
comin'  in  wid  de  baby!" 

She  struggled  to  rise,  then  sank  back  among 
the  pillows,  which  Mandy  kept  so  white,  and 
turned  her  face  to  the  open  window. 

Yessum  crept  out  softly  that  he  might  not 
disturb  her  and  sat  down  on  the  doorstep  to 
wait  for  his  mother.  When  she  came  her  first 
question  was  of  Granny. 

"She's  been  wanderin',"  said  Yessum. 

But  when  they  went  in  to  her  they  found 
that  she  had  wandered  farther  than  they 
thought. 

Ill 

Young  Rob  Beauchamp  postponed  his  visit 
to  Nashville  in  order  to  be  present  at  Granny's 
funeral.  Mrs.  Beauchamp  herself  —  Granny's 
dear  "Miss  Irene" — came  and  helped  Mandy 
arrange  things,  and  put  flowers  on  the  cas 
ket  and  hung  an  imposing  width  of  crape 
on  the  door,  and  Rob  Beauchamp  stood  all 
during  the  service,  his  tall,  straight  figure 
I  129 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

and  handsome  face  seeming  to  fill  the  little 
cabin. 

He  even  followed  the  hearse  to  the  grave 
yard  and  waited  until  the  last  shovelful  of  earth 
had  been  placed  above  the  faithful  servant  of 
his  family,  who  had  loved  them  for  so  many 
years,  and  whose  dog  -  like  devotion  had  de 
scended  to  her  grandson,  the  child  whose  eyes 
never  left  Mister  Robert's  face  for  one  moment 
during  the  whole  services. 

A  month  went  by,  and  Yessum  was  discon 
solate  at  the  absence  of  Mister  Robert  in  Nash 
ville,  when  one  day  Mandy  came  home,  her 
face  gray  with  terror  and  grief,  to  tell  Yessum 
that  Marse  Rob,  their  idol,  had  killed  a  man  in 
Nashville  during  a  quarrel,  and  was  in  jail  in 
that  wicked  city  for  murder. 

Nashville  had  always  embodied  vice  un 
speakable  to  Mandy,  being  the  only  large  city 
she  knew  of. 

Yessum  was  beside  himself  when  he  heard  it. 
He  flung  himself  on  the  floor  biting  and  tearing 
his  shirt  -  sleeves  and  the  flesh  beneath,  until 
Mandy  seized  him  in  her  arms  in  terror.  Then 
he  broke  away  from  her,  and  dashed  out  of 
the  house  like  a  little  mad  animal,  begging 
any  passer-by  to  read  him  out  of  the  paper 
about  Marse  Rob. 

He  came  home  late,  but  greatly  to  Mandy's 
130 


'Yessum" 

relief,  and  flung  himself  supperless  into  bed, 
where  he  tossed  restlessly.  Mandy  heard  him 
muttering  in  his  sleep,  and  once  he  wakened 
with  a  scream  from  dreaming  of  Marse  Rob 
in  jail. 

The  horror  of  it  was  ever  present  in  his  mind, 
for  many  was  the  hour  he  had  spent  near  their 
own  jail,  picturing  the  solitude  and  shame  and 
disgrace  of  its  inmates. 

No  one  knew  how  the  terrible  quarrel  had 
happened.  There  were  no  witnesses.  John 
Ford,  the  man  he  had  killed,  was  a  worthless 
and  dangerous  fellow,  many  years  older  than 
Robert  Beauchamp,  but  unfortunately  the 
only  son  of  a  wealthy  brewer  whose  idol  he 
was. 

Young  Ford  claimed  in  his  ante-mortem 
statement  that  Rob  attacked  him  unprovoked. 
Rob  swore  he  killed  him  in  self-defence. 

Scores  of  witnesses  came  from  Memphis  to 
testify  to  Robert  Beauchamp's  fine  character 
and  hitherto  unblemished  reputation.  They 
were  obliged  to  admit,  however,  that  he  was  a 
Beauchamp  and  hot-tempered  and  wonderfully 
quick  with  a  pistol.  Circumstantial  evidence 
was  closing  around  the  poor  young  fellow,  and 
two  things  militated  strongly  against  him. 
One  was  the  bitter  animosity  of  the  Ford  family, 
aided  and  abetted  by  their  counsel,  a  man  by 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

the  name  of  Shackleford,  whose  daughter  was 
the  beauty  of  Nashville. 

Miss  Shackleford  was  a  gentle,  lovable  girl, 
in  no  way  like  her  father,  who  was  poor  and 
ambitious  and  rather  unscrupulous. 

The  other  was  Rob's  obstinate  silence  upon 
the  cause  of  the  quarrel.  In  vain  his  distracted 
grandmother  pleaded.  In  vain  his  lawyers 
urged.  Nothing  could  be  got  out  of  him. 
When  they  hinted  that  there  might  be  a  lady  in 
the  case,  Rob  even  refused  to  say  whether  there 
was  or  not.  All  they  could  discover  was  that 
Robert  Beauchamp  shot  and  killed  John  Ford 
just  about  dusk  on  the  evening  of  June  I4th. 

The  Memphis  papers  were  full  of  it.  Yessum 
grew  haggard  and  thin  from  his  grief  and 
anxiety,  and  Mandy's  anxiety  was  divided 
between  Yessum  and  Marse  Rob.  Yessum 's 
was  single-hearted  and  one-ideaed.  He  ate, 
drank,  slept,  walked,  talked  with  but  one 
thought  in  his  mind.  He  bored  everybody  with 
his  piteous  request  to  have  the  Nashville  news 
told  him,  and  when  one  day  in  a  burst  of  im 
patience  a  brakeman  of  the  Nashville  train 
pointed  out  a  young  mulatto  to  him  as  a  Nash 
ville  boy,  Yessum  sprang  upon  him  like  a  little 
tiger. 

"Please,  sir,  mister,"  he  said,  "is  you  from 
Nashville?" 

132 


'Yessum" 

"Who  says  I'se  from  Nashville?" 

"  De  brakesman  what  come  down  awn  de  train 
wid  you." 

The  mulatto  scowled. 

"Well,  an'  if  I  is,  what  den?" 

"Den  maybe  you  kin  tell  me  somepin  'bout 
my  Marse  Rob  Beauchamp,  what  dey  done  put 
in  jail—" 

The  mulatto  clapped  his  hand  over  Yessum's 
mouth  and  hissed : 

"Hush  yo'  big  black  mouf,  you  little  debbil! 
How  you  know  I  know  anything  'bout  dat 
Rob  Beauchamp?" 

"Marse  Rob  Beauchamp,  ef  you  please,  sir. 
Hit  ain't  fitten  for  you  to  call  him  Rob,  lake 
he  was  black  or  you  was  white." 

"Well,  Mister  Beauchamp,  den.  How  you 
know,  I  says?" 

Now  Yessum  did  not  know,  but  the  super 
natural  cunning  of  the  negro,  the  astonish 
ing  acuteness  which  sometimes  stands  them 
in  the  stead  of  education  or  wisdom,  put  it 
into  Yessum's  head  to  close  up  one  eye  and 
say: 

"Umphl  I  knows  mo'  'bout  you  dan  you 
t'ink." 

The  mulatto  turned  and  surveyed  the  little 
black   boy   skipping   along   at   his  side.     His 
shrewd  face  bore  out  his  brave  words. 
133 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

"Does  anybody  else  know,  'cept  just  you?" 

"Nary  one." 

"  Well,  ef  you  promise  cross  yo'  heart  dat  you 
never  tell  awn  me,  nor  never  tell  who  tole  you, 
I'll  tell  you  'bout  dat  fight." 

Yessum's  heart  almost  turned  over. 

He  crossed  his  heart. 

"I  promise,"  he  said. 

The  mulatto  led  the  way  to  an  empty  freight- 
car  down  the  track,  and  for  an  hour  he  and 
Yessum  sat  with  their  heads  close  together, 
talking  over  the  way  Rob  Beauchamp  was  led 
to  kill  John  Ford. 

When  they  had  finished,  they  went  through 
some  boyish  pantomime  indicative  of  the  ut 
most  secrecy,  and  separated. 

Yessum's  little  black  face  looked  a  year  older. 
It  was  all  too  true.  Hitherto  he  had  not  be 
lieved  it.  He  had  thought  Marse  Rob  the  victim 
of  some  horrible  mistake.  He  had  daily  ex 
pected  some  one  to  turn  up  who  would  admit 
that  he  was  the  real  murderer  and  clear  Marse 
Rob.  But  here  was  a  young  fellow  who  had 
been  the  only  witness  to  the  whole  affair.  If 
he  were  found,  they  could  prove  beyond  a  doubt 
that  Marse  Rob  killed  him,  and  the  last  chance 
would  be  gone.  Here  in  Yessum's  possession 
was  the  very  knife  used.  It  had  no  name  on  it 
— the  initials  had  been  cut  out — and  the  blood 
134 


'Yessum" 

on  it  had  been  carefully  cleaned  off.  Still,  it 
was  the  murderous  knife. 

The  boy  sometimes  walked,  sometimes  ran 
like  the  wind.  Sometimes  he  stood  still  and 
talked  to  himself,  and  sometimes  burst  into  a 
fit  of  choking  sobs.  Any  one  would  have  been 
justified  in  thinking  him  crazy. 

He  composed  himself  when  he  reached  home, 
and  faced  his  mother  calmly.  He  even  ate  a 
little  supper  to  please  her.  Then  he  went  to 
bed,  but  not  to  sleep. 

He  tossed  to  and  fro  restlessly  all  night,  only 
sleeping  in  snatches.  Occasionally  he  muttered  : 

"De  blood  would  be  ole  an'  de  knife  rusty;" 
or  "Wonder  ef  I'se  strong  'nough." 

Towards  morning  he  rose  and  crept  about 
softly,  putting  some  clothes  and  a  few  corn 
pones  together  in  a  bundle.  Then  he  opened 
the  door  cautiously,  and,  leaving  his  mother 
still  sleeping,  he  fled  down  the  road  like  some 
swift  black  shadow. 

IV 

It  was  the  i8th  of  December.  The  trial 
of  Robert  Beauchamp  was  nearing  its  close. 
Public  sympathy  was  divided.  The  Fords 
had  strong  supporters ;  the  Beauchamps  strong 
sympathizers  and  equally  strong  opponents. 
135 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

It  looked  dark  for  the  prisoner.  His  lawyers, 
particularly  old  Mr.  Totten,  hoped  to  get  him 
off  with  imprisonment  for  a  term  of  years.  Im 
prisonment  for  life  was  possible,  but  not  prob 
able,  and  hanging  he  considered  out  of  the 
question. 

As  long  as  the  knife  which  Robert  Beauchamp 
claimed  was  used  on  him,  and  gave  him  that 
ugly  flesh  wound,  was  missing;  as  long  as  the 
pistol  with  its  one  empty  chamber,  which  he 
admitted  to  have  used  in  the  shooting,  was  ad 
mitted  in  evidence;  and  as  long  as  no  human 
eye  saw  the  deed,  to  testify  either  way,  it  was 
simply  a  question  of  the  judge's  charge  to  the 
jury  and  the  way  they  were  prejudiced  or  in 
fluenced  by  the  bearing  of  the  prisoner.  At 
present  it  appeared  that  Robert  Beauchamp 
had  deliberately  murdered  an  unarmed  man  and 
skilfully  wounded  himself  with  his  own  knife. 

It  was  an  impressive  moment  just  before  the 
judge  rose  to  deliver  his  charge.  Mrs.  Beau- 
champ's  pale,  noble  face  was  transparent  with 
anguish.  She  sat  with  her  delicate  hands 
clasped  tightly  together  and  her  great,  black 
eyes,  which  age  had  not  entirely  robbed  of 
their  brilliancy,  fastened  upon  the  judge's  face, 
striving  to  read  beforehand  whether  he  would 
condemn  her  boy. 

Robert  Beauchamp's  brown  face  was  pale 
136 


'Yessum" 

and  thin;  his  splendid  color  had  gone,  but  the 
pride  in  his  eye  and  the  courage  which  had 
never  deserted  him,  even  when  he  saw  the 
toils  closing  around  him,  gave  the  spectators 
a  curious  sense  of  his  innocence  and  of  the 
cruelty  and  tyranny  of  the  law. 

Every  ear  was  strained  to  catch  the  first 
words  of  the  judge  as  he  slowly  rose,  when  the 
door  of  the  court  was  flung  open  and  a  little 
something,  too  short  to  be  seen,  elbowed  and 
pushed  its  way  between  the  standing  crowds, 
past  the  lawyers,  the  jury,  the  prisoner  and  his 
grandmother,  and,  planting  himself  squarely 
before  the  judge,  Yessum  cried  out  : 

"  Jedge,  I  done  come  all  de  way  from  Memphis 
to  tell  you  dat  I  killed  Mister  John  Ford.  Hyer 
am  de  ve'y  knife  wot  I  done  jobbed  into  him. 
Hyer  am  de  place  whah  his  initials  wuz,  only 
I  cut  'em  out.  Marse  Rob  Beauchamp  never 
done  it  at  all.  I  done  it.  I  killed  dat  Mister 
John  Ford  wid  dis  hyer  knife." 

There  was  a  moment's  hush  after  the  shrill 
voice  of  the  boy  had  ceased.  Under  some  cir 
cumstances  people  might  have  laughed.  But 
the  anguish  in  his  voice  when  he  cried  out, 
"Marse  Rob  never  done  it!"  the  size  of  the 
boy,  the  utter  futility  of  the  lie  he  had  told,  the 
noble  proportions  of  his  sacrifice,  struck  home 
to  every  soul  who  heard  him. 
137 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

As  no  one  answered  him,  Yessum  was  terrified 
by  the  silence. 

"Ain't  I  in  time?"  he  cried.  "Is  Marse  Rob 
done  hung?" 

"No,  Yessum,  here  I  am!"  said  Robert  Beau- 
champ,  his  face  quivering  with  a  feeling  he 
had  not  shown  during  his  whole  trial. 

Yessum  sprang  for  him  and  clung  to  his 
hand,  covering  it  with  kisses. 

Then  he  turned  back  to  the  judge. 

"  Why  don't  you  cotch  me,  jedge,  'fore  I  git 
away?  Whah  is  yo'  handcuffs,  Marse  Rob? 
Put  'em  awn  me.  Dat's  where  dey  belong." 

Mr.  Totten,  Rob  Beauchamp's  lawyer,  rose 
as  the  judge  sat  down. 

"What  is  your  name,  boy?"  he  said. 

"Beauregard  Beauchamp  Tice,"  came  the 
answer  promptly.  "Dey  calls  me  'Yessum' 
for  short." 

"Well,  Beauregard,  why  did  you  kill  Mister 
John  Ford?"  pursued  the  lawyer. 

"'Cause  I  jis  natchelly  'spise  him.  I  done 
hated  dat  Mister  Ford  sense  I  was  dat  high. 
An'  I  made  up  my  min'  two  years  ago  dat  I 
gwine  kill  dat  man  some  day  ef  I  lived." 

"Well,  do  you  know,  Beauregard,  that  in 
declaring  yourself  the  murderer  of  John  Ford, 
and  in  showing  the  knife  wherewith  you  com 
mitted  the  deed,  you  are  giving  yourself  into 
138 


'Yessum" 

the  clutches  of  the  law,  and  that  you  are  liable 
to  be  hanged?" 

The  boy's  face  turned  gray  with  terror,  for 
he  had  all  the  negro's  fear  of  death. 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  knows  dat.  But  you  cain't  hang 
me  an'  Marse  Rob  both,  kin  you?" 

"No,  we  cannot  hang  you  both,"  admitted 
Mr.  Totten,  sweeping  the  eager  court-room  with 
his  eyes,  and  finding  it  breathless  with  atten 
tion.  "  However,"  he  proceeded,  "  that  cannot  be 
the  knife  with  which  the  deed  was  committed — " 

"'Deed  it  is,  sir,"  Yessum  interrupted. 
"See  de  blood  awn  it,  an'  de  rust.  De  blood 
is  ol'  an'  brown.  Ef  it  was  fraish,  hit  would 
be  red." 

"I  say  it  cannot,"  pursued  Mr.  Totten,  "be 
cause  the  murder  was  committed  with  this 
pistol." 

Every  one  leaned  forward  to  watch  the 
child's  face  when  the  force  of  this  announce 
ment  struck  him.  He  looked  swiftly  from  the 
lawyer  holding  the  pistol  to  Marse  Rob. 

"How  you  know?"  he  demanded. 

"Mr.  Robert  Beauchamp  admits  it  himself." 

Yessum  flung  himself  upon  the  court -room 
floor  in  a  passion  of  tears.  He  lay  there  writh 
ing  and  sobbing  until  his  shrieks  rose  to  an 
ear- piercing  shrillness. 

Mr.  Totten  stooped  and  raised  him. 
139 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

"Poor  boy  I"  he  said,  kindly. 

"Den  I  'ain't  saved  Marse  Rob!  Dat  black 
nigger  tole  me  wrong  1"  he  cried. 

"What  nigger  told  you?"  demanded  Mr. 
Totten,  quickly. 

Yessum  speedily  forgot  his  promises  to  the 
mulatto. 

"A  yaller  boy  what  saw  de  fight  an'  gib  me 
dis  knife/'  sobbed  Yessum. 

Mr.  Totten  seized  the  knife,  looked  at  it  and 
handed  it  to  Mr.  Ford,  the  father  of  the  dead 
man. 

He  looked  at  it  carefully. 

"That  is  my  son's  knife,"  he  said.  "I 
gave  it  to  him  myself.  The  initials  have  been 
cut  out." 

Mr.  Totten  talked  hurriedly  to  Yessum  for 
a  few  moments,  while  the  spectators  hardly 
breathed. 

"Your  Honor,  I  ask  for  an  adjournment  of 
the  court  and  a  subpo3na  to  produce  an  impor 
tant  witness  for  the  defence,"  he  announced,  tri 
umphantly. 


It  was  Christmas  week  in  Nashville,  but  so 
absorbing  was  the  interest  in  the  trial  that  the 
approaching  festivities  were  in  a  measure  over- 
140 


'Yessum" 

shadowed  by  the  anxiety  of  the  people  as  to 
what  this  mysterious  new  witness  would  develop. 

High  and  low,  black  and  white  were  keen 
in  their  sympathies,  because  of  the  mixed  ele 
ments  involved. 

Stately  Madam  Beauchamp,  with  her  silver 
hair  and  flashing  eyes,  was  the  most  absorbing 
topic  of  conversation  at  the  hotel  when  it  was 
known  that  in  order  to  have  the  little  black 
boy  with  her  on  that  first  night,  after  he  had 
walked  from  Memphis  to  Nashville  to  save  her 
grandson,  she  had  given  him  her  own  room 
and  her  own  bed,  while  she  bandaged  his  poor 
bleeding  feet,  cut  by  the  frozen  roads  and 
swollen  with  cold  and  pain.  Although  the 
hotel  company  would  not  have  given  a  negro 
a  room  there,  in  order  to  preserve  its  white  pat 
ronage,  there  was  no  one  who  denied  that  Madam 
Beauchamp  was  doing  the  right  and  proper 
thing  to  take  matters  into  her  own  high-handed 
keeping,  as  became  a  Beauchamp. 

Mandy  came  on  the  evening  train,  telegraph 
ed  for  by  Madam  Beauchamp  when  Yessum 
admitted  that  she  did  not  know  where  he  was. 

When  she  was  ushered  into  the  room  where 
Yessum  lay  propped  up  on  the  pillows,  with 
his  eager  black  face  like  a  large  spot  of  ink 
against  their  whiteness,  and  Madam  Beauchamp 
at  his  side  holding  his  little  black  paw  in  one 
141 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

of  her  wrinkled,  jewelled  hands — before  Mandy 
even  greeted  any  one  beyond  her  first  instinctive 
courtesy,  she  exclaimed : 

"In  yo'  bade,  Mis'  Irene?  Kin  I  bleevc 
my  eyes  ?  Ackchilly  in  ole  Mis's  bade  1  Oh, 
Lawd  in  heaven,  I  wonder  ef  my  po'  ole  maw 
kin  see  dis!" 

The  next  day  was  the  24th  of  December. 

Early  in  the  morning  the  popping  of  fire 
crackers  announced  to  Yessum's  alert  ears 
that  the  Christmas  festivities  had  begun.  If 
Marse  Rob  were  acquitted,  Madam  Beauchamp 
had  promised  Yessum  such  a  Christmas  as  he 
never  had  seen  before. 

"But  if  he  is  not  acquitted/'  she  continued, 
her  face  twitching,  "  not  one  of  us  will  want  to 
see  the  light  of  Christmas  Day." 

They  were  in  the  court-room  early.  Yessum 
was  dressed  and  carried  down  to  the  carriage, 
which  bore  Madam  Beauchamp  and  his  mother. 
They  all  sat  together,  the  black  and  white,  bound 
together  more  closely  within  than  without. 

There  was  a  stir  of  expectation  when  Mr. 
Totten  appeared  with  the  deputy  sheriff  and  a 
mulatto  of  about  twenty  years  of  age,  whom 
numbers  in  the  court -room  recognized  as  a 
loafer  about  town,  a  harmless,  no-account  sort 
of  boy,  with  no  particular  vice  about  him  except 
want  of  intellect  and  a  consuming  cowardice. 

I\2 


'Yessum" 

Mr.  Ford,  the  father  of  the  dead  man,  was 
the  first  witness  called.  Upon  the  stand  he 
identified  the  knife  produced  by  Mr.  Totten 
as  the  one  which  his  son  habitually  carried 
with  him. 

Then  the  mulatto  was  called. 

He  admitted  that  his  name  was  Price  Logan ; 
that  he  lived  in  Nashville;  that  on  the  even 
ing  of  June  I4th,  near  dusk,  he  was  in  the 
vicinity  of  the  Lebanon  turnpike,  near  where 
it  crosses  Mill  Creek,  and,  hearing  voices  ap 
proaching,  one  of  which  he  recognized  as  Mr. 
John  Ford's,  he  climbed  a  tree. 

"Why  did  you  climb  that  tree?"  asked  Mr. 
Totten.  "  Why  did  you  try  to  hide?" 

"  'Caze  I  knowed  Mr.  John  Ford's  voice,  an' 
he  swore  he  was  gwine  to  kill  me  for  lamin' 
his  fine  hoss.  So  I  jis  quietly  climb  dat  tree 
tell  he  git  pas'.  Dey  come  strollin'  along  wid 
dey  fishin'  -  tackle.  Dey  voices  sound  pretty 
loud,  but  when  dey  git  mos'  under  de  tree  I'se 
in  I  fin'  out  dey's  quarrellin'.  De  fust  t'ing 
I  hyer  was  Mr.  Ford,  sayin',  'I  bleeve  you's 
in  love  wid  her  yo'seff.'  I  didn't  hyer  what 
Mr.  Beauchamp  say,  'caze  his  voice  ain't  so 
rough  and  loud  as  Mr.  Ford's.  Den  Mr.  Ford 
say,  'She  wouldn't  look  at  you,  'caze  she's 
po',  an'  her  paw  boun'  she  shell  mah'y  rich/ 
Mr.  Beauchamp  speak  out  den,  an'  he  say, 
143 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

"Don't  say  such  a  t'ing  'bout  dat  lady.'  An! 
Mr.  Ford  say,  'I  says  what  I  please  'bout  dat 
gal.'  Wid  dat  Mr.  Beauchamp  say,  'I  reckon 
by  dat  yo'  mean  you's  gwine  mah'y  her.'  But 
Mr.  Ford  say,  'Not  if  I  kin  git  her  widout.' 
An'  he  bust  out  a-laffin !  But  he  ain't  laff  much, 
tell  Mr.  Beauchamp  hit  him  in  de  mouf .  '  Tek 
dat!'  he  hiss  between  his  teef,  'for  darin'  to 
even  hint  at  sech  a  t'ing!' 

"Wid  dat,  Mr.  Ford  begin  to  cuss  an'  swear, 
an'  dey  close  an'  fight,  a-weavin'  dis  way  an' 
dat,  each  a-tryin'  to  th'ow  de  odder.  Mr.  Ford 
de  bigges'  an'  oldes'  an'  heavies',  but  Mr. 
Beauchamp  de  quickes'  an'  stronges'.  T)ey 
bofe  breathe  so  loud  I  see  dey's  gittin'  winded, 
an'  I  wonder  how  it  gwine  end,  when  I  see  Mr. 
Ford  tryin'  to  git  his  knife.  He  let  Mr.  Beau- 
champ  th'ow  him  to  git  his  han's  loose,  an' 
when  Mr.  Beauchamp  got  him  down  an'  he 
t'ink  he  beat  him,  Mr.  Ford  reach  aroun'  wid 
dat  knife  an'  stab  him  in  de  breas'  twice — only 
one  hit  his  arm.  Wid  dat  Mr.  Beauchamp 
giv'  a  cry  an'  sorter  loose  his  holt,  an'  let  Mr. 
Ford  git  de  'vantage.  In  a  minute  dey  bofe 
up,  an'  let  loose  each  odder.  Mr.  Beauchamp 
say,  'You  tryin'  to  kill  me,  John  Ford?' 
An'  Mr.  Ford  say,  'Dat's  jis  what  I'se  gwine 
do. '  Wid  dat  he  mek  anodder  lunge  at  him  wid 
dat  knife,  an'  den  I  heard  a  shot  an'  see  Mr. 
144 


'Yessum" 

Ford  fall.  I  so  skeert  wid  dat  I  loose  my  holt 
an'  fell  three  or  fo'  branches.  I  cotch  myseff, 
though,  an'  dis  time  I  see  po'  Mr.  Beauchamp 
a-kneelin'  by  Mr.  Ford's  side  wringin'  his 
han's,  wid  de  tears  streamin'  down  his  face 
an'  a-callin'  awn  Gawd  to  witness  dat  he  ain't 
never  meant  to  kill  him. 

"When  he  t'ink  he  dade,  Mr.  Beauchamp 
stan'  up  an'  look  aroun'  wildlike.  Den  he 
leave  his  fishin'- tackle  an'  de  knife  an'  pick 
up  his  pistol  an'  start  a-runnin'  towards  town. 

'  'Fore  I  could  git  down,  I  see  he  ain't  dade. 

"I  was  skeered  nuff  when  I  t'ink  I  was  leff 
alone  wid  a  dade  man,  but  when  he  move  a 
lill  I  was  a  heap  wuss  skeered  to  t'ink  he  ain't 
dade,  when  he  done  promuss  to  kill  me  fust 
chance  he  got.  I  set  an'  watch  to  see  if  he  move 
agin,  an'  when  I  see  him  layin'  so  still  I  drap 
down  as  quiet  an'  swif '  as  I  kin,  an'  grab  up  de 
knife  layin'  close  by  his  han',  so's  he  cain't 
kill  me  wid  it,  den  I  start,  tight  as  I  kin  go,  after 
Mr.  Beauchamp.  I  run  lake  de  debbil  was 
after  me,  an'  I  ain't  nebber  quit  goin'  tell  I  git 
awn  de  train  for  Memphis,  whah  dat  lill  black 
boy  foun'  me,  an'  mek  me  tell  what  I  knowed. 
I  ain't  tell  him  de  trufe,  dough,  'caze  I'se  too 
skeert.  I  tole  him  Mr.  Beauchamp  done  kill 
him  wid  dat  knife.  I  done  been  six  months  in 
Memphis,  an'  I  never  would  'a'  come  back 
K  145 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

lessen  I  was  brung.  Dat's  all  I  knows.  You 
cain't  hang  me  for  dat,  kin  you,  jedge?" 

A  stir  of  intense  excitement  swept  over  the 
court-room  as  Logan  finished.  Mr.  Totten's 
face  expressed  supreme  satisfaction.  The  jury, 
composed  of  Southern  men,  would  all  be  moved 
to  sympathize  with  the  prisoner  for  showing 
fight  at  the  light  mention  of  a  woman's  name. 

Mr.  Shackleford,  the  chief  attorney  for  the 
prosecution,  arose  with  a  contemptuous  sneer 
upon  his  face. 

"May  it  please  the  court,  I  should  like  to 
ask  the  witness  the  name  of  the  young  lady 
whom  the  prisoner  was  so  gallant  as  to  defend 
in  this  highly  romantic  and  theatrical  man 
ner?" 

"Hit  was  Miss  Mattie  May  Shackleford,  sir," 
answered  Logan. 

Shackleford — his  own  daughter! 

The  lawyer  started  as  if  he  had  been  shot. 
His  countenance  turned  purple.  He  glanced 
around  at  the  sea  of  faces  watching  him,  then 
dropped  into  his  seat  and  flung  his  handker 
chief  over  his  face. 

Mr.  Totten  had  intended  to  say  more — to 
make  a  speech  perhaps,  but  the  tense  feeling 
of  the  spectators,  the  eager  faces  of  the  hitherto 
impassive  jurors,  warned  him  to  let  human 
nature  take  its  course,  without  the  aid  of  art. 
146 


'Yessum" 

"Is  the  evidence  all  in?"  asked  the  judge. 
Both  sides  assented. 

Then  he  rose  to  deliver  his  charge. 

Never  had  he  made  so  brilliant  or  so  stirring 
an  arraignment  of  facts.  He  related  the  evi 
dence,  he  summed  up  the  case,  he  instructed 
the  jury  to  do  their  duty,  in  a  tone  which  im 
plied  that  if  they  did  not  acquit  Robert  Beau- 
champ  they  were  not  the  body  of  Southern 
gentlemen  they  claimed  to  be. 

The  jury  were  out  only  ten  minutes.  When 
they  marched  back  to  their  seats  and  the  fore 
man  arose  to  pronounce  Robert  Beauchamp 
acquitted  of  the  grave  charge  of  murder — a 
free  man — a  cheer  arose  in  the  court-room  which 
not  even  the  presence  of  the  Fords  and  the  judge 
could  instantly  quell. 

They  crowded  around  Madam  Beauchamp 
and  Robert  and  Mandy  and  Logan,  laughing, 
crying,  and  congratulating.  Poor  little  Yessum 
was  almost  forgotten  in  the  new  hero,  Price 
Logan.  But  in  the  midst  of  it  all  Madam 
Beauchamp  stooped  and  took  his  hand.  With 
the  other  she  held  Robert's. 

' '  Beauregard , "  she  said ,  in  her  stately  manner, 
"many  years  ago,  my  eldest  son,  who  was  shot 
at  the  battle  of  Fair  Oaks,  celebrated  the  first 
anniversary  of  his  birthday  by  giving  freedom 
to  your  grandmother.  I  never  dreamed  then 
147 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

that  the  act  could  be  returned  in  kind.  But 
this  day  you  have  repaid  me  a  thousand  times 
by  bringing  pardon  and  freedom  on  Christmas 
Eve  to  my  grandson.  Beauregard,  you  have 
given  me  the  noblest  Christmas  gift  I  ever  have 
received  in  all  my  life." 


Miss  Scarborough's  Point  of 
View 


Miss  Scarborough's  Point  of 
View 


i 


F  Miss  Scarborough  had  been  young 
er,  she  might  have  admitted  that  she 
was  somewhat  cynical. 

"  But  as  it  is/'  she  said  to  her  dear 
friend,  Agnes  Coffyn,  "there  is  but  one  class 
which  announces  its  secret,  and  that  is  the 
great  class  of  the  Inexperienced.  You  may 
divide  it  into  two  subdivisions.  The  very 
young  gentlemen  from  small  towns  who  have 
come  to  New  York  with  a  sublime  faith  in  their 
own  capacity  to  build  Rome  in  a  day,  and  who 
feel  that  by  their  coming  they  fill  a  long-felt 
want  in  the  metropolis.  Their  cynicism  is 
founded  on  the  failure  of  the  dear  public  to 
agree  with  them.  Then  there  are  the  buds, 
who,  after  having  been  judiciously  reared,  find 
during  their  first  season  that  the  Harvard  men 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

said  the  same  things  to  all  the  other  buds,  and 
that  the  Yale  men  were  no  better ;  and  as  for 
Princeton,  the  less  said  about  their  flirting 
propensities  the  better.  Then  they  read  The 
Green  Carnation,  and  drop  their  Sunday-school 
class  and  take  up  Ethical  Culture,  and,  lo !  they 
are  cynics.  And  they  don't  care  who  knows 
it." 

Mrs.  Coffyn  laughed  gently. 

"You  are  so  clever,  Leslie/'  she  murmured, 
admiringly. 

"  But  they  are  not  in  fashion,"  pursued  Miss 
Scarborough.  "  The  fashionable  emotions  just 
now  are  faith  in  human  nature  and  charity. 
If  you  hear  scandal,  deprecate  it.  If  you  hear 
a  racy  story  on  your  neighbor,  tell  how  good 
she  was  to  you  when  the  children  had  scarlet- 
fever.  It  is  very  effective  and  quite  the  thing." 

"I  wish  I  were  clever/'  cooed  Mrs.  Coffyn. 
"It  must  be  so  lovely  to  think  such  amusing 
things  out  all  by  one's  self,  and  then  watch 
the  effect  on  people." 

Miss  Scarborough  laughed  and  colored  a 
trifle.  Mrs.  Coffyn  sometimes  unconsciously 
insinuated  the  tip  of  her  lance  between  the 
joints  of  Miss  Scarborough's  glittering  armor. 

"I  shall  try  to  repeat  these  things  to  Frank/' 
pursued  Mrs.  Coffyn.  "When  he  finds  you 
have  been  here,  he  always  says,  '  What  did  she 
152 


Miss  Scarborough's  Point  of  View 

have  to  say?'     He  says  you  are  the  most  in 
teresting  girl  he  knows." 

"Very  nice  of  him,  I'm  sure.  What  fun  we 
had  here  the  other  night.  There  were  lines 
in  my  face  the  next  day  from  laughing.  I  wish 
we  might  have  the  same  people  together  again." 

"I  enjoyed  myself,  too,  but  Frank  didn't. 
You  see  he  was  one  of  the  odd  men.  He  wanted 
to  take  you  in,  but  the  men  were  three  deep 
around  you  all  the  evening.  He  was  disap 
pointed." 

"Perhaps  these  two  things  were  why  I  had 
such  a  good  time,"  said  Miss  Scarborough, 
dryly. 

"Now  it  would  be  something  like,  if  you 
really  meant  that,"  said  Mrs.  Coffyn,  sitting 
up  in  her  chair  and  laying  her  jewelled  hands 
together  in  her  lap.  "You  might  have  as 
many  good  times  as  you  chose  if  you  would 
just  pay  a  little  attention  to  Frank  and  make 
him  feel  of  some  importance.  My  hands  are 
tied.  I  can't  devote  myself  to  my  own  husband, 
with  a  dozen  other  men  around,  and  he  wouldn't 
want  me  to.  Neither  do  I  dare  suggest  inviting 
them  here  too  often.  He  might  think  I  wanted 
them  for  myself  instead  of  for  you." 

"That  would  never  do,"  said  Miss  Scar 
borough,  looking  down  to  conceal  the  twinkle 
in  her  eye. 

153 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

She  got  up  and  walked  to  the  window.  They 
were  in  Mrs.  Coffyn's  tiny  apartment  in  Fifty- 
fifth  Street,  on  the  eighth  floor.  The  apartment- 
house  opposite  was  only  six  stories  high,  so  that 
in  summer  there  was  always  a  good  view  of  the 
family  washing  on  the  lower  roof.  Miss  Scar 
borough  watched  a  maid  hanging  clothes  on 
the  lines  with  keen  interest. 

"How  much  one  can  learn  of  a  family's  pri 
vate  history  by  its  washing!"  she  observed. 

Mrs.  Coffyn  colored.  It  was  a  sensitive 
point  with  her,  that  she  lived  so  modestly. 
Miss  Scarborough  lived  in  Seventy  -  second 
Street,  in  a  house  so  smart  that  it  bored 
her. 

"Nonsense!"  snapped  Mrs.  Coffyn.  "How 
can  you  look  at  such  a  vulgar  sight!" 

"It's  not  at  all  vulgar.  It  is  fascinating. 
They  are  young  married  people  with  their  first 
baby." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"  Because  the  baby  linen  is  so  fine,  and  there 
are  the  lingerie  of  a  bride  whose  trousseau  has 
not  yet  given  out,  and  his  pyjamas — " 

"  Leslie  !  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  your 
self!" 

Miss  Scarborough  forgot  that  Mrs.  Coffyn's 
trousseau  finery  was  one  of  those  which  was 
on  the  point  of  giving  out,  nor  did  she  know 
154 


Miss  Scarborough's  Point  of  View 

that  she  was  a  source  of  deep  envy  to  her  mar 
ried  friend. 

"Of  course,"  pursued  Mrs.  Coffyn,  returning 
to  the  subject  in  hand  with  increasing  anima 
tion,  "I  don't  want  to  interfere  with  your 
affairs.  Just  be  nice  occasionally  to  Frank. 
When  he  looks  bored,  call  him  over  and  talk 
to  him  a  moment." 

"A  sop  to  Cerberus/'  suggested  Miss  Scar 
borough. 

"Er — yes,  I  suppose  so.  You  need  not  bore 
yourself  with  Frank/'  Frank's  wife  went  on, 
"but  you  are  so  clever,  you  could  make  five 
minutes  count  with  him  and  make  him  feel 
happy  all  the  evening." 

"Frank  never  bores  me,"  said  Leslie,  shortly. 
"There  is  more  character  in  his  little  finger 
than  in  most  of  the  men  I  know.  I  think  mod 
ern  men  are  horrid.  Fascinating,  but  horrid. 
I  sometimes  wonder  if  we  know  any  bachelors 
with  fine,  old-fashioned  principles." 

"Oh  yes,  Leslie.  Don't  you  know  Mr. 
Cramm?" 

"But  I  meant  one  who  wore  good  clothes." 

"Oh!  Well,  I  dare  say  not.  You  used  to 
think  John  Trelawney  had  such  principles,  and 
I'm  sure  his  clothes  are  perfect.  He  gets  them 
in  London." 

Miss  Scarborough  colored  hotly. 
155 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

"I  still  make  an  exception  of  him,"  she  said. 

"I've  often  wondered  why  you  didn't  marry 
him,"  observed  Mrs.  Coffyn. 

"He's  too  heavy!"  cried  Leslie,  excitedly. 
"And  too  gentle  and  too  good.  He  makes 
me  feel  so  wicked  by  contrast.  And  he's  so 
methodical  and  unromantic.  I'm  tired  of  his 
solidity  and  worth.  I  wish  '  the  man  on  horse 
back'  would  enter  my  life!  I  would  be  quite 
contented  to  worship  him  without  return.  I'd 
like  to  meet  a  King  Arthur  or  a  Knight  of  the 
Holy  Grail!" 

"A  'man  on  horseback'?"  said  Mrs.  Coffyn, 
uncertainly.  "Doesn't  John  Trelawney  ride?" 

Miss  Scarborough  laughed  hysterically. 
"Yes,  he  rides — a  dear  little  safe  rocking-horse, 
which  will  never  throw  him,  and  which  could 
never  carry  double  in  case  John  Trelawney 
could  develop  young  Lochinvar  instincts." 

"Well,  I'm  sure  I  don't  know — "  murmured 
Mrs.  Coffyn,  stifling  a  yawn  with  the  back  of 
her  hand. 

Miss  Scarborough  brought  herself  back  with 
an  effort. 

"  We  always  enjoy  ourselves  here,"  she  broke 
out.  "Your  apartment  is  so  cosey.  Our  house 
is  too  large.  One  feels  lost  with  a  party  of 
ten  in  those  drawing  -  rooms.  I  am  so  deadly 
tired  of  opera  and  dinner-dances  and  the  same 
156 


Miss  Scarborough's  Point  of  View 

old  things  we  go  to  every  winter  and  bore 
ourselves  to  death  going  to.  No,  if  we  are 
to  have  any  fun  this  winter  it  must  be  here." 

"It  lies  in  your  hands/'  said  Mrs.  Coffyn, 
significantly. 

"Then  I  have  your  permission  really  to  flirt 
with  Frank  and  get  some  amusement  out  of 
the  situation?"  said  Miss  Scarborough,  rising 
to  go.  She  watched  her  friend  narrowly. 

"My  full  and  free  permission/'  said  Mrs. 
Coffyn,  joyously. 

"You  are  not  afraid  of  the  consequences  on 
any  of  the  three  of  us?" 

"Not  in  the  least.  I  have  perfect  confidence 
in  dear  old  Frank,  and  I  know  he  will  be  quite 
safe  with  you." 

Miss  Scarborough  raised  her  eyebrows  a 
little. 

It  was  some  hours  later  before  she  had  time 
to  think  of  it.  Her  callers  bored  her.  When 
they  left  she  sat  down  in  the  great  drawing- 
room  with  an  air  of  relief.  It  was  the  Scar 
borough  "day,"  and  it  was  of  no  use  to  go  up 
stairs.  More  people  would  come  presently. 
She  detested  "days." 

Miss  Scarborough  looked  at  the   world  out 

of   her   wide  -  open   eyes.     Her   past   was   rich 

with  experience  but  bitter  with  memories   of 

shattered  ideals.     She  had  longed  to  see  and 

157 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

know,  and  she  had  seen  and  known.  The 
result  was  that  she  read  more  and  lived  less. 

She  adjusted  herself  to  the  experience  of 
the  morning.  Mrs.  Coffyn  was  beautiful.  Miss 
Scarborough  was  clever. 

"  She  wants  him  kept  out  of  the  way/'  thought 
Miss  Scarborough,  shrewdly.  "  I'm  interesting, 
but  not  too  fascinating.  Therefore  I  shall  be  a 
safe  companion  for  him.  I  am  like  a  family 
horse,  she  thinks.  Perfectly  safe  to  carry  all 
the  children.  They  can  pound  me  all  they 
like,  and  I  won't  run  away,  and  when  they 
choose  to  have  me  stop,  I  stop.  But  I  have 
heard  of  family  horses  cutting  up  queer  didoes 
at  the  sound  of  a  brass -band.  However,  I 
don't  believe  that  Frank  Coffyn  is  my  brass- 
band.  He  is  interesting  enough,  if  I  dared 
draw  him  out.  I  have  a  great  mind  to  go  into 
this  thing.  I  have  her  sanction.  Frank  used 
to  say  nice  things  to  me  once  in  a  while  before 
he  married.  It  would  be  amusing.  But  no. 
Honor  among  thieves,  I  say.  1  like  Agnes. 
There  is  enough  fire  and  brimstone  in  Frank 
and  me  to  make  things  lively — a  little  too 
lively  perhaps.  I  think  when  a  horse  hears 
himself  recommended  to  anxious  parents  as 
safe,  steady,  and  gentle  as  a  kitten,  when  he 
himself  knows  that  he  shies  at  bicycles,  that  it 
is  his  equine  duty  to  show  the  whites  of  his 
158 


Miss  Scarborough's  Point  of  View 

eyes,  to  signify  '  danger  ahead/  even  if  it  spoils 
a  trade." 

Miss  Scarborough  got  up  and  looked  at  her 
quiet  face  in  the  mirror. 

"I  wonder  if  I  ought  to  show  the  whites  of 
my  eyes  to  Agnes  Coffyn?"  she  murmured. 

She  walked  to  the  window  and  stood  looking 
out.  The  street  was  gay  with  smart  vehicles 
and  brilliant  with  self-conscious  and  self-satis 
fied  pedestrians.  The  Riverside  Drive  was  ex 
changing  courtesies  with  Seventy-second  Street. 

Leslie  smiled  as  she  watched  them. 

"Ah,  here  comes  Frank  Coffyn/'  she  mur 
mured  presently.  "What  a  superb  presence 
he  has!  I  wonder  if  it  would  do  any  harm  if 
I  were  to  have  a  little  fun.  I  have  been  oppres 
sively  good  for  so  long.  Absurd,  though,  to 
think  that  my  modest  charms  could  pit  them 
selves  against  Agnes 's  beaux  yeux  and  win. 
Still,  I  think  I'll  just  stand  here  and  have  a 
little  fling  with  Destiny.  I  won't  move  an 
eyelid.  If  Frank  looks  up  and  sees  me,  I  will 
take  it  for  a  sign.  If  he  passes  on,  Agnes's 
little  plan,  which  I  am  not  to  know,  but  which 
I  shall  know,  will  fail." 

The  lace  curtains,   a  mere  frost  -  work,  fell 

between  Leslie  and  the  window.     She  did  not 

push  them  aside,   but  stood  motionless,   with 

her  eyes  fixed  upon  Mr.  Coffyn.     He  glanced 

159 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

up  as  he  came  within  range  of  the  house,  scan 
ned  the  upper  windows  and  then  the  lower. 
As  he  spied  Leslie  he  hesitated,  then  turned 
and  sprang  up  the  steps.  She  listened  for  the 
far-off  sound  of  the  bell,  and  smiled  half  scorn 
fully. 

"Pretty  good  for  a  family  horse/'  she  mur 
mured. 

A  moment  later  Frank  Coffyn  stood  before 
her,  a  breezy,  athletic  fellow,  who  always  seemed 
to  bring  in  with  him  a  portion  of  the  outside  at 
mosphere. 

"This  world  is  a  sad  place,  Frank,"  observed 
Leslie,  holding  out  her  hand  to  him. 

"  Nonsense!  You  are  not '  low  in  your  mind ' 
on  such  a  day  as  this?" 

"The  weather  has  nothing  to  do  with  my 
opinion  of  the  world.  I  feel  as  the  little  girl 
did  who  said  to  her  mother,  '  Mamma,  I've  been 
naughty.  You  don't  love  me,  and  God  hateth 
me,  and  I  gueth  I'll  go  out  in  the  back  yard 
and  eat  bugth." 

"Have  you  been  naughty,  Leslie?" 

"  I  haven't  done  the  deed.  I  have  only  plan 
ned  it." 

"Don't  do  it.  Take  my  advice  and  leave  it 
alone." 

"But  it  would  have  been  so  much  fun.     We 
should  have  enjoyed  it — at  first." 
160 


Miss  Scarborough's  Point  of  View 

"Oh,  then  there  was  to  have  been  some  one 
else!  Lucky  person  to  have  been  in  your 
thoughts.  Wish  I  knew  him." 

"Whom  should  it  have  been  but  yourself." 

"Was  it  I?  You  needn't  look  nervous, 
Leslie.  I  wasn't  going  to  say,  'Was  it  me.' 
Well,  don't  let  me  keep  you  back.  Go  ahead 
with  your  wickedness.  I'll  help  you." 

"Oh,  I  knew  I  could  count  on  you.  But 
I  haven't  decided  yet.  I  am  dallying  with  the 
tempter." 

"That  sounds  deliciously  wicked.  Let  me 
know  when  you  make  up  your  mind.  That 
reminds  me.  Come  down  to-morrow  night, 
won't  you?  Agnes  has  a  new  way  of  doing 
mushrooms,  and  we  are  going  to  have  another 
chafing-dish  supper.  The  fellows  from  the 
'  Bureau '  are  all  coming,  and  they  said  be  sure 
to  have  Miss  Scarborough." 

"The  Bureau?"  said  Leslie,  with  a  wrinkle. 

"Seelye  told  me  you  called  their  bachelors' 
quarters  the  'Anti-Matrimonial  Bureau/  be 
cause  they  were  so  luxurious." 

"So  I  did.     I'd  forgotten." 

"By  Jove!  if  I  could  say  as  clever  things  as 
you  do,  I'd  not  be  forgetting  them." 

"It's  only  that  you  are  too  modest  to  think 
you  say  clever  things.     Other  people  are  more 
appreciative  of  your  efforts." 
L  161 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

"Leslie,  you  are  the  nicest  wo — girl  I  know." 
"That    lightning    change    just    saved    you. 
An   unexpunged   edition   of  this  conversation 
might  go  to  Agnes." 

"  Agnes  is  not  a  bit  jealous.  Why,  she  would 
like — that  is — she  wouldn't  care  how  nice  I 
was  to  you.  I  have  perfect  confidence  in  her, 
and  she  in  me.  Then  we  pay  each  other  the 
compliment  of  not  watching  each  other.  A 
gentleman  couldn't  do  less." 

"You  incline  to  agree  with  the  Kentuckian 
who  said  his  idea  of  a  gentleman  was  one  who 
set  the  bottle  on  the  table  and  then  looked  the 
other  way." 

"I  do,  indeed.     Well,  will  you  come?" 
"  Yes,  with  pleasure.     I  was  going  to  a  dance, 
but  I'll  cut  it  and  come  to  you.     It  will  be  so 
much  cosier." 


II 


It  is  to  be  hoped  that  the  Recording  Angel 
is  not  narrow-minded,  but  is  a  Person  of  Ex 
perience,  for  it  would  not  be  fair  to  send  a  creat 
ure  like  Leslie  Scarborough  into  this  world, 
endowed  with  a  generous  faith  in  humanity 
and  more  than  her  share  of  conscience,  yet  to 
temper  her  with  a  brain  which  could  not  help 
penetrating  shams  and  pretences,  without  mak- 
162 


Miss  Scarborough's  Point  of  View 

ing  allowances  for  her.  She  disbelieved  in 
people  against  her  will.  She  envied  those  who 
could  skim  lightly  over  the  service  of  society, 
being  amused  by  its  cleverness,  yet  escaping 
the  heartache  which  she  always  carried  home 
with  her  at  the  remembrance  of  its  falseness. 
Her  quick  wit  resented  the  inanities  of  the 
conventional,  but  her  conscience  kept  her  from 
breaking  over  its  set  rules.  She  shocked  her 
mother  by  telling  her  that  she  was  too  coward 
ly  to  be  wicked  and  she  didn't  want  to  be 
good. 

Of  all  the  men  comprising  the  "Bureau," 
she  liked  Seelye  the  least.  He  was  shallow, 
but  immensely  quick  at  repartee.  His  mind 
was  stored  with  epigrammatic  bits  of  cleverness 
which  he  used  in  such  a  keen  way  as  to  be  very 
amusing.  His  reputation  for  general  all-around 
wickedness  was  enhanced  and  verified  by  his 
bearing  of  exquisite  gentlemanliness,  yet,  as 
Leslie  confided  to  his  ardent  admirer,  Carstairs, 
when  he  was  lauding  Seelye's  qualities  as  a 
chum,  he  did  not  come  within  her  "electric 
circle,"  which  was  a  way  she  had  of  classifying 
people. 

"He  is  a  most  polished  egoist,"  she  said  to 
Carstairs,  whereat  Carstairs  roared  and  went 
straight  to  tell  Seelye. 

Carstairs'  chief  fault,  in  Miss  Scarborough's 
163 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

eyes,  was  that  he  was  young.  "Twenty- 
eight  net/'  he  told  her  when  she  asked  him. 
Miss  Scarborough  had  a  way  of  making  im 
pertinent  questions  sound  like  the  interest  ex 
hibited  by  one's  dearest  friend. 

"  Get  over  it  as  fast  as  you  can,  please.  Youth 
is  one  thing  I  abhor.  You  are  very  nice  now — 
quite  the  nicest  boy  of  twenty-eight  I  ever  saw. 
At  forty  you  will  be  irresistible." 

"  What  makes  you  have  such  hopes  of  me  at 
forty?"  asked  Carstairs,  meekly. 

"  Because  I  have  confidence  that  the  decadent 
period  will  wear  away  by  that  time,  and  that 
you  will  leave  off  thinking  as  you  do  now. 
Crudeness  ill  becomes  a  brain  whose  possibil 
ities  are  as  yours." 

"By  Jove!  you  serve  red  pepper  and  arnica 
at  the  same  time,  Miss  Scarborough.  But  de 
cadent  thinking  does  not  imply  crudeness." 

"You  say  that  because  you  are  young — 
hopelessly  young.  Decadence  in  an  infant  of 
your  tender  years  would  be  the  most  amusing 
thing  in  the  world  if  it  did  not  strike  me  as  so 
pitiful.  It  implies  so  much  more  than  crude- 
ness — a  shallow  nature  and  a  superficial  habit 
of  thought." 

Miss  Scarborough  smiled  mischievously  at 
Carstairs'  discomfited  face.  A  woman  always 
knows  when  a  man  is  so  perilously  near  being 
164 


Miss  Scarborough's  Point  of  View 

in  love  with  her  that  she  can  say  anything 
to  him. 

"What  a  chum  you  would  make!"  he  sighed. 
"  If  you  were  a  man,  I'd  go  to  lunch  with  you 
every  day/' 

"  You  wouldn't  like  me  a  bit  if  I  were  a  man. 
It's  only  because  I  am  a  woman  that  you  let 
me  say  such  things  to  you." 

The  library  in  the  Coffyn  apartment  in  Fifty- 
fifth  Street  seemed  filled  when  the  four  bachelors 
and  Miss  Scarborough  were  there.  There  could 
be  nothing  formal  in  a  room  where  somebody 
had  to  be  stepped  over  if  one  moved.  The  new 
books,  no  matter  how  racy,  were  always  seen 
first  at  the  Coffyn's.  If  one  had  a  clever  opinion, 
one  saved  it  to  tell  at  the  first  gathering.  Mrs. 
Coffyn  and  Miss  Scarborough  were  the  only 
women.  Mrs.  Coffyn  allowed  the  men  to  smoke, 
and  when  the  atmosphere  grew  too  heavy  she 
and  Miss  Scarborough  went  out  and  aired  them 
selves,  or  else  ordered  everybody  else  to  stop, 
and  made  the  man  next  the  windows  open 
them. 

This  was  the  nearest  to  Bohemia  that  these 
two  carefully  reared  and  exclusively  chaperoned 
young  women  ever  had  encountered,  and  they 
revelled  in  the  mild  dissipation  with  the  abandon 
of  children.  They  discussed  the  questions  in 
Tess  and  Trilby  and  The  Manxman  as  freely 
165 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

as  if  they  had  all  been  girls  together  and  felt 
deliciously  wicked  and  emancipated  because 
their  mothers  would  have  been  shocked  if  they 
could  have  known  it. 

The  touching  wickedness  of  the  American 
girl  often  consists  in  saying  things  which 
would  be  a  shock  to  her  mother,  but  of  behav 
ing,  as  a  rule,  as  though  she  were  chaper 
oned  by  the  angel  Gabriel. 

It  was  three  months  since  Miss  Scarborough 
had  taken  Mr.  Coffyn  off  his  wife's  hands,  yet 
possibly  no  one,  not  even  Miss  Scarborough 
herself,  knew  what  skill  had  been  required  to 
keep  him  sufficiently  interested  in  her  to  give 
Mrs.  Coffyn  full  swing,  yet  to  prevent  anything 
like  a  flirtation,  for  women  who  are  the  most 
unerring  in  their  treatment  of  men  often  can 
not  describe  their  methods. 

In  the  mean  time  she  had  kept  a  quiet  eye  on 
Mrs.  Coffyn,  and  it  was  not  long  before  she 
discovered  that  it  was  Seelye  who  was  enacting 
the  role  of  moth.  If  the  other  men  saw  it,  one 
never  would  have  known.  Apparently  they 
were  blind  and  deaf  and  dumb.  If  they  thought 
it  was  only  a  flirtation,  their  behavior  was  dis 
creet.  If  they  thought  he  really  was  in  love 
with  her,  they  were  wise. 

In  spite  of  the  simplicity  and  almost  artless- 
ness  of  Mrs.  Coffyn's  nature,  as  evidenced  by 
166 


Miss  Scarborough's  Point  of  View 

the  way  she  showed  her  hand  to  the  subtler 
Miss  Scarborough,  there  was  a  certain  dignity 
in  her  character  which  prevented  familiar  speech. 
As  well  as  Leslie  knew  her,  she  felt  that  it  would 
take  a  braver  person  than  she  to  broach  the 
subject  of  Mr.  Seelye's  interest  in  Mrs.  Coffyn 
to  that  beautiful  woman  herself.  Miss  Scar 
borough  ran  in  upon  him  whenever  she  went 
there.  She  swallowed  the  weakest  excuses 
with  a  perfectly  serious  face.  He  sent  game  to 
Frank  and  flowers  to  Agnes  with  such  pleasing 
impartiality  that  Leslie  found  even  her  good- 
breeding  strained.  It  would  have  been  such 
a  relief  to  laugh  openly. 

In  the  mean  time,  whether  because  of  the 
judicious  way  in  which  Miss  Scarborough 
effaced  outward  traces,  or  whether  virtue  was 
its  own  reward,  she  and  Mr.  Seelye  began 
to  like  each  other.  From  natural  suspicion 
of  each  other's  cleverness  and  dread  of  each 
other's  shafts  of  wit,  they  drifted  through  the 
intermediate  stages  of  cool  toleration  and  luke 
warm  liking  to  the  central  poise  of  anxious 
expectation  when  the  needle  of  polarity  might 
swing  either  way.  Seelye  was  the  first  to  pass 
from  the  admiration  Miss  Scarborough  com 
pelled  to  a  warm  regard. 

But  Miss  Scarborough,  while  she  could  not 
help  admiring  him,  and  sometimes  surprised 
167 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

a  look  in  his  eyes  which  wrenched  her  heart 
with  the  intuitive  knowledge  of  another's 
suffering,  could  not  bring  herself  to  respect 
him.  She  did  not  approve  of  any  man  who 
was  not  governed  by  principle.  And  while, 
in  her  desire  for  enjoyment  a  little  out  of  the 
usual  run  of  society,  she  was  willing  to  pay 
for  it  by  lending  herself  to  the  helping  of  a  mild 
flirtation  along,  still  when  she  looked  out  over 
the  ocean  or  wakened  in  the  middle  of  the  night 
she  abhorred  the  whole  situation  and  hated 
herself  quite  genuinely  for  countenancing  it. 
She  got  over  this,  however,  wrhen  she  put  on  a 
ball-gown.  Miss  Scarborough  was  fin  de  siecle 
without  and  early  Christian  within.  Her  friends 
only  smiled  misunderstandingly  at  what  they 
termed  her  charming  inconsistencies.  The 
full  effect  of  this  unfortunate  combination  fell 
chiefly  upon  herself. 

Her  inner  nature  was  like  a  combination  of 
unmined  metals.  One  could  trace  copper  and 
gold  and  a  little  alloy.  But  the  great  emotion 
or  heart  experience  which  would  separate  the 
metals,  releasing  the  gold  and  destroying  the 
alloy,  had  not  yet  come  to  her. 

Thus,  while   her  admiration  of   Seelye's  wit 

was  so  tangled  up  in  her  scorn  of  the  way  he 

drifted  with  the  tide,  there  were  times  wrhen  she 

did  not  know  what  she  really  did  think  of  him. 

168 


Miss  Scarborough's  Point  of  View 

She  never  knew  that  any  one  felt  this  except 
herself.  The  owner  of  a  stern  moral  sense, 
who  has  the  wit  not  to  preach  at  people,  has  no 
idea  how  permeating  a  Puritan  influence  is. 
It  percolates  through  all  looser- jointed  natures 
with  which  it  comes  in  contact,  and  acts  like 
a  spiritual  tonic,  stiffening  up  involuntarily 
the  moral  backbone  of  the  weak.  Miss  Scar 
borough  would  have  been  intensely  surprised 
if  she  had  dreamed  that  her  stand-point  had 
any  effect  upon  Carstairs'  combination  of  ag 
nosticism  and  decadence  or  upon  Seelye's 
mental  vision. 

It  was  the  night  of  the  3ist  of  December, 
when  the  seven  met  in  Mrs.  Coffyn's  apartment 
to  watch  the  old  year  out  and  the  new  year  in. 

Drayton  made  the  mistake  of  coming  without 
his  mandolin,  and  they  bundled  him  out  of  the 
house  in  short  order.  They  heard  him  below 
roaring  for  a  cab  to  fetch  it. 

Frank  Coffyn,  the  most  genuinely  musical 
of  all,  was  doing  delicious  bits  on  his  new  ban- 
jaurine  with  Agnes  at  the  piano.  Carstairs 
sang — whenever  the  rest  would  let  him.  Blair 
handled  the  guitar  with  familiarity  if  not  with 
skill.  Seelye  belonged  to  the  silent  audience 
of  two. 

"  Seelye,  I  should  think  you  and  Miss  Scar 
borough  would  be  ashamed  to  mix  with  this  ac- 
169 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

complished  company  and  not  do  a  thing.  Why 
don't  you  do  something  for  your  country?" 

"We  do  more  than  anybody.  We  listen  to 
you,"  answered  Miss  Scarborough  from  the 
cushion  end  of  the  divan. 

She  sat  up  long  enough  to  make  Carstairs 
leave  off  singing  the  Bowery  songs  in  which 
he  revelled,  and  insisted  on  "Land  o'  the  Leal" 
until  she  got  it.  Seelye  was  hanging  over 
Agnes. 

"The  Trilbiness  of  Miss  Scarborough  in  al 
ways  getting  her  own  way/'  observed  Blair, 
tuning  his  guitar  to  represent  as  much  discord 
as  possible. 

"Blair  has  such  pleasant  ways  of  making 
night  hideous,"  said  Carstairs,  dropping  some 
hot  ashes  on  Blair's  unsuspicious  hand. 

"You  ought  to  give  us  all  keys,  Agnes," 
said  Miss  Scarborough  as  Drayton  rang  the 
bell. 

Presently  Mrs.  Coffyn  said  the  chafing-dish 
was  ready.  They  depended  more  on  the  readi 
ness  of  the  chafing-dish  than  the  hour,  and  they 
all  squeezed  past  the  hat-rack  in  the  tiny  hall 
and  filed  out  to  the  dining-room. 

Mrs.   Coffyn    stationed    herself    behind    the 

chafing-dish.     The  rest  fought  politely  as  to 

who  should  sit  by  Miss  Scarborough.     Even 

Seelye  always  joined  in  this  pleasant  sham,  but 

170 


Miss  Scarborough's  Point  of  View 

somehow  others  invariably  distanced  him,  for  he 
always  was  left  to  sit  on  Mrs.  Coffyn's  right. 
And  nobody  saw  anything  funny  in  even  that. 

"Ah/'  thought  Miss  Scarborough,  "but  we 
are  a  well -trained  set."  It  was  the  alloy  in 
her  nature  which  made  her  seek  an  evening 
of  this  sort. 

Carstairs,  who  really  wanted  to  sit  by  Miss 
Scarborough,  was  forced  to  sit  on  the  other  side 
of  the  table.  Evidently  Blair  and  Drayton, 
having  been  so  good  to  Seelye,  had  to  take  it 
out  on  somebody.  Everybody  went  on  playing 
while  the  mushrooms  were  cooking. 

Leslie  sat  by  Frank  Coffyn.  She  saw  him 
glance  down  to  where  Seelye  and  Agnes  had 
their  heads  together,  critically  measuring  out 
the  sherry. 

But  he  said  nothing. 

Drayton  and  he  were  trying  to  get  into  the 
same  key  with  Blair,  seeing  that  Blair  never 
could  get  into  theirs.  But  Drayton  had  to 
stop  playing  every  once  in  a  while  to  serve  him 
self  to  more  sandwiches. 

"  Drayton,  you  would  play  better  if  you  didn't 
eat  so  much,"  said  Carstairs,  who  wanted  to 
sing.  But  the  rest  only  grinned  and  kept  on 
playing. 

"I  thought  of  getting  a  flute,"  said  Carstairs. 
"I  think  we  need  a  flute  in  this." 
171 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

The  rest  all  laid  down  their  instruments. 

"Go  on  and  sing,  Carstairs.  We'd  rather 
have  you  sing  than  that." 

Everybody  was  delighted  at  Carstairs'  dis 
comfiture  except  Seelye  and  Agnes.  They 
heard  nothing. 

"Oh,  I  wonder  how  long  this  thing  will 
last?"  said  Miss  Scarborough,  in  an  aside  to 
Drayton. 

It  chanced  to  fall  on  a  moment  of  unexpected 
silence,  and  everybody  heard  it.  Seelye  glanced 
at  her. 

"  I  wonder,"  she  repeated,  recovering  herself, 
"how  long  it  will  be  before  somebody  does 
something  rash?  —  how  long  it  will  be,  let  us 
say,  before  Carstairs  falls  in  love  with  me?" 

There  was  a  moment  of  utter  relief,  and  then 
a  roar  of  delight  and  surprise  from  the  other 
men. 

"That  was  a  close  call,"  whispered  Drayton, 
admiringly,  "  but  you  recovered  yourself  like 
a  Talleyrand." 

"I  didn't  mean  it  the  way  it  sounded,"  re 
turned  Miss  Scarborough,  in  a  vexed  tone.  "  I 
meant  this  set  was  too  harmonious  and  this 
harmony  too  delightful  to  last.  Nothing  nice 
ever  does  last." 

"You  are  rather  cynical  to-night." 

"Never.  Absurd  as  it  may  seem,  my  faith 
172 


Miss  Scarborough's  Point  of  View 

is  still  buffeting  with  reality.  I  cannot  give 
up  the  unequal  contest." 

"  I  propose  a  toast/'  said  Seelye,  rising. 

"He's  come  out  of  his  trance/'  whispered 
Drayton. 

Miss  Scarborough  put  her  handkerchief  to 
her  face,  but  she  felt  furious  with  herself  for 
having  accidentally  broken  the  ice.  They 
must  talk  about  it  from  now  on.  It  was  the 
beginning  of  the  end.  Her  innocent  remark 
had  hastened  the  evil  day  she  deprecated. 

"Here's  to  the  most  gracious  hostess,  the 
loveliest  woman,  the  sweetest  friend,  whose 
beauty  of  heart,  mind,  and  face  are  equal  and 
alike  perfect." 

"Name  her,"  said  Carstairs,  wickedly. 

Mrs.  Coffyn  colored  furiously,  and  Seelye's 
voice  shook  as  he  answered — 

"Who  but  one— Mrs.  Coffyn." 

When  they  had  drunk  the  toast,  Frank  leaned 
towards  Leslie  Scarborough. 

"  Would  you  be  jealous  of  that,  if  you  were  I?" 
he  said,  indicating  his  wife  and  Seelye. 

"  No  more  than  she  would  be  of  you  and  me. 
We  whisper  more  than  is  necessary.  Really, 
I  think  Agnes  is  very  sweet  not  to  mind." 

"But  you  never  would  flirt  with  me,  Leslie." 

"  I  like  Agnes  too  much.  You  know  a  family 
horse  with  a  conscience  is  a  great  institution." 
173 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

"Wha-a-at?"  asked  Frank. 

"Oh,  nothing.  You  are  so  stupid.  It's  too 
exhausting  to  repeat  it." 

"  My,  but  we  are  getting  silent.  Stir  up  the 
animals,  can't  you,  Carstairs?" 

"I  propose  a  toast.  'Here's  to  the  woman  I 
adore — '  "  began  Carstairs,  who  was  not  fluent. 

"  If  you  mean  Miss  Scarborough,  we  are  all 
in  on  that,"  interrupted  Dray  ton. 

"Wait  a  minute.  'Here's  to  the  woman  I 
adore — the  woman  I  adore — ' " 

"Oh,  let  it  go  at  that,"  cried  Blair. 

"All  right;  here's  to  Miss  Scarborough!" 

"Leslie,  synonym  for  Cleverness,"  supple 
mented  Frank  Coffyn. 

"I  hope  you  will  observe  that  Frank's  toast 
is  to  the  head,  mine  to  the  heart,  Miss  Scar 
borough,"  said  Carstairs,  sentimentally. 

Blair  groaned  and  Drayton  began  to  weep 
into  his  napkin. 

"I  hope  I  am  sufficiently  impressed  by  the 
double  honor  done  me,"  observed  Miss  Scar 
borough,  in  a  modest  voice.  "My  head  grate 
fully  responds  to  Mr.  Coffyn,  but  my  heart 
still  more  gratefully  responds  to  Mr.  Carstairs, 
seeing  that  it  is  within  fifteen  minutes  of  the 
end  of  the  old  year,  and  a  woman  may  be  justi 
fied  in  expecting  no  more  favors  from  Fortune 
at  this  late  hour.  Nevertheless,  owing  to  the 
174 


Miss  Scarborough's  Point  of  View 

fickleness  of  my — presently  I  shall  be  able  to 
call  him  my  fiance,  Mr.  Carstairs,  I  think  it  is 
just  as  well  that  I  have  around  me  all  these 
good  friends  who  heard  his  declaration  and 
who  will  bear  me  witness,  if  I  ever  need  them, 
in  a  breach-of-promise  case." 

As  she  finished,  a  roar  of  applause  greeted 
her  modest  effort,  and  Blair  and  Frank  Coffyn 
struck  up  the  "Wedding  March." 

They  were  having  what  to-morrow  they  would 
call  "a  royal  good  time." 

"It  lacks  only  three  minutes  of  twelve/' 
said  Frank  Coffyn,  drawing  out  his  watch. 
"Leslie,  you  must  propose  a  toast  to  the  New 
Year." 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence,  during  which 
a  sudden  solemnity  broke  through  their  idle 
frivolity  and  laid  itself  upon  their  hearts.  Miss 
Scarborough's  more  susceptible,  electric  nature 
felt  the  tension  in  the  atmosphere  most  of  all. 
She  looked  from  the  serious  faces  of  the  men 
opposite  to  Mr.  Seelye's,  whose  drawn  brows 
indicated  some  mental  strain  that  a  certain 
wildness  of  his  dark  gaze  intensified.  It  was 
a  disquieting  look  that  Leslie  met.  It  made 
her  pulses  beat  nervously.  Agnes  Coffyn's 
face  was  flushed  unnaturally,  and  there  was  a 
hard,  dry  brightness  in  her  eyes,  as  if  she 
would  meet  the  new  year  with  a  challenge. 
175 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

Leslie  suddenly  felt  that  the  masks  of  society 
were  wellnigh  slipped  off,  and  as  if  she  came 
nearer  to  seeing  into  the  hearts  of  the  people 
before  her  than  she  had  ever  come  before.  At 
such  moments  as  these  she  always  thought 
of  one  man — John  Trelawney,  who  hovered 
always  in  the  background  of  her  thoughts 
and  to  whom  belonged  the  gold  of  her  nature. 
Her  voice  shook  as  she  began  to  speak,  and 
every  drop  of  color  fled  from  her  face. 

"Are  the  husks  so  delicious  that  we  cannot 
give  them  up?"  she  said,  scanning  the  eager 
faces  raised  to  hers.  "  Are  we  such  happy  men 
and  women  that  we  will  not  turn  aside  from 
this  to  seek  new  paths?  Do  we  so  love  the 
shams  we  are  that  we  would  not  be  different 
if  we  could?" 

The  tall  clock  interrupted  her  with  its  deep, 
sonorous  chime.  She  counted  the  strokes  out 
loud. 

"  Ten,  eleven,  twelve  !  Here's  to  the  New 
Year.  Let  us  live  it  from  the  heart  instead  of 
with  the  head,  and  see  if,  by  ceasing  to  seek 
happiness,  we  may  not  find  content." 

"Here's  to  the  New  Year,"  echoed  Seelye, 
"let  us  live  it  with  a  conscience." 

Miss  Scarborough  was  transfixed  with  sur 
prise.  Carstairs,  whom  she  had  expected  to 
follow  her,  had  failed  her.  Seelye,  from  whom 
176 


Miss  Scarborough's  Point  of  View 

she  had  expected  nothing,  had  stepped  ahead 
of  her.  Again  her  mind  wrenched  back  to 
John  Trelawney. 

"  I  have  something  to  do,  and,  by  the  grace 
of  God,  I  am  going  to  do  it,"  he  went  on. 

Then  it  was  that  Seelye  made  his  little  speech 
which  so  mystified  the  men,  and  which  the  two 
women  imagined  they  understood  because  they 
listened  with  their  hearts. 

"I  don't  believe  in  making  New  Year's  res 
olutions.  I've  seen  the  folly  of  that.  But 
there  is  a  time  for  everything,  and  now  is  the 
time  for  this.  You  fellows  know  how  I  have 
been  burning  the  candle  at  both  ends.  You 
know  how  I  have  worked  hard  all  day  and 
stayed  up  half  the  night.  Now  the  time  has 
come  to  stop.  You  may  not  think  it,  you  who 
have  seen  only  the  frivolous  side  of  me,  but  I 
say  to  you  fearlessly  I  am  a  man  of  principle. 
It  may  be  a  trifle  out  of  fashion,  but  it  is  true 
of  me,  and  in  that  fact  lies  my  salvation.  There 
lies  the  secret  of  the  resolve  which  makes  me  ex 
plain  myself  in  this  manner  to  my  good  friends, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Coff  yn.  I  have  got  something  to  do, 
something  which  is  right  and  honorable — some 
thing  which  to  leave  undone  is  wrong  and  dis 
honorable.  I  mean  to  do  it.  I  have  an  awful 
amount  of  perseverance.  I  don't  want  to  appear 
mysterious,  but  I  cannot  tell  you  at  present 
M  177 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

what  it  is.  I  want  to  thank  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Coffyn  for  their  hospitality,  more  gracious  and 
free  than  any  I  ever  have  met  with  before.  I 
want  to  say  that  I  appreciate  it  more  than  I 
have  words  to  express,  and  if,  after  this,  you  only 
see  me  once  in  a  month  or  so,  you  will  believe 
that  it  is  much  harder  for  me  to  stay  away 
than  you  think.  I  shall  have  to  explain  myself 
to  my  other  friends.  I  hope  they  will  under 
stand  that  I  am  exiling  myself  for  a  principle; 
that  I  am  not  happy,  and  that  I  mean,  as  Miss 
Scarborough  said,  to  see  if  by  leaving  off  the 
search  for  happiness  I  cannot  find  content." 

He  turned  away  from  the  table  and  walked 
to  the  window.  Frank  Coffyn  cleared  his 
throat  and  said: 

"Pshaw,  old  man!" 

No  one  made  any  response.  He  looked  help 
lessly  at  his  wife's  downcast  face.  She  had 
tears  in  her  eyes  which  he  did  not  see.  He 
opened  his  mouth  to  say  something  lively  or 
consoling,  but  only  said,  again : 

"Pshaw,  old  man!" 

"Let's  go  into  the  library,"  suggested  Car- 
stairs,  with  masculine  brilliancy. 

Mrs.  Coffyn  hastened  to  lead  the  way.  Be 
fore  Leslie  could  rise  from  her  chair,  Seelye 
stooped  over  her  swiftly  and  caught  both  of 
her  wrists. 

178 


Miss  Scarborough's  Point  of  View 

"Do  you  respect  me?"  he  said,  fiercely. 
"You've  never  believed  in  me.  I  know  that. 
Tell  me,  do  you  respect  me?" 

Miss  Scarborough  caught  her  breath.  She 
never  expected  him  to  allude  to  it  so  plainly. 

"Then  you  really  were — it  was  not  merely 
a — "  she  hesitated. 

"Good  God!  Didn't  you  believe  in  that 
either?  Believe  now,  then.  And  like  me  a 
little.  I  need  your  friendship.  My  hand  is 
an  honest  one.  Will  you  take  it  and  let  me  be 
your  friend?" 

Miss  Scarborough  took  it  in  both  of  hers. 
"The  man  on  horseback!"  The  knight  who 
could  renounce  his  love  for  a  woman — oh, 
thank  God  !  —  without  there  being  another 
woman  in  the  case! 

"I  never  expected  to  live  to  see  this  day," 
she  murmured.  "You  have  done  me  an  evil 
turn  in  bolstering  up  a  faith  in  mankind  which 
was  already  too  strong  for  comfort.  It  gets 
too  many  rude  shocks.  And  this  is  the  nine 
teenth  century,  isn't  it?  Forgive  my  disbelief. 
I  not  only  respect,  but  I  honor  you,  and  I'll  be 
your  friend  —  yes,  proudly  and  gladly.  You 
have  earned  the  right  to  be  called  a  friend. 
Let  us  follow  the  others  into  the  library.  You 
are  really  doing  this  from  principle?  How 
does  it  feel  to  wear  good  clothes  and  have 
179 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

principles  that  would  compel  a  woman's  re 
spect?" 

Seelye  grinned  in  a  melancholy  sort  of  way. 
In  spite  of  her  raillery,  he  saw  the  tears  in  her 
eyes. 

"  I  am  not  a  happy  man,  Miss  Scarborough. 
You  seem  to  have  so  much  brightness  to  lend, 
I  wish  you  would  take  me  in  hand." 

"I  am  not  a  happy  woman,  Mr.  Seelye,  but 
I'll  gladly  take  you  in  hand.  It  will  be  pleasant 
to  moan  in  such  company." 

"So  you  never  believed  that  I  was  in  any 
danger?" 

"To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  gave  you  no  credit 
for  depth  of  feeling,  and  less  credit  for  principle. 
It  is  not  fashionable  to  feel  deeply.  But,  do 
you  know,  it  is  very  strange  that  sometimes 
in  real  life  one  meets  a  character  which  would 
grace  a  tragedy.  We  have  lived  through  a 
tragedy  to-night." 

She  smiled,  and  in  spirit  she  knelt  at  the  feet 
of  this  widowed  bachelor,  while  the  image  of 
John  Trelawney  receded  into  the  dim  back 
ground  of  her  memory 


With  Feet  of  Clay 


With  Feet  of  Clay 


A  Sequel  to  "Miss  Scarborough's  Point  of 
View." 


|J  S  it  was  a  question  of  delicacy,  Miss 
|  Scarborough  felt  that  if  they  were 
going  to  discuss,  even  in  the  privacy 
of  the  boudoir,  the  extraordinary 
events  of  the  3ist  of  December,  Mrs.  Coffyn 
must  be  the  one  to  broach  the  subject. 

Miss  Scarborough  had  grave  doubts  whether 
Mrs.  Coffyn  would  ever  do  this,  inasmuch  as 
all  during  the  affair  they  never  had  mentioned 
it  except  during  that  first  interview  when,  in 
an  idle  moment,  they  planned  what  had  nearly 
brought  shipwreck  to  them  all.  To  be  sure, 
since  New  Year's  there  had  not  been  a  single 
reunion  at  the  Coffyns'. 

Seelye's  withdrawal  and  the  tragic  ending 
183 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

to  their  fun  and  nonsense  had  taken  all  the 
spirit  out  of  the  affair. 

Occasionally  Drayton  and  Blair  called  there, 
but  they  spent  most  of  the  time  avoiding  one 
topic,  and,  if  Seelye's  name  accidentally  were 
mentioned,  an  awkward  silence  ensued. 

Carstairs  went  regularly  to  see  Miss  Scar 
borough,  but  as  he  always  found  Seelye  there, 
and  as  they  religiously  sat  each  other  out  and 
came  away  together,  leaving  Miss  Scarborough 
on  the  verge  of  hysterics  with  amusement  at 
Carstairs'  tragic  boyish  airs,  affairs  could 
not  be  said  to  be  nourishing  with  any  of  them. 

"How  silly  you  are!"  she  said  to  him  one 
day  when  he  found  her  alone.  "You  make 
me  so  nervous,  sitting  and  glowering  at  poor 
Mr.  Seelye,  as  if  he  were  a  hated  r-r-rival." 
She  rolled  the  r  mischievously.  "  Why  are 
you  never  normal  any  more?  What  has  got 
into  you,  anyway?" 

"Well,  what's  old  Seelye  doing  here  every 
time  I  come?"  burst  out  Carstairs,  wrathfully. 
"He  isn't  in  love  with  you.  He  just  comes 
in  order  to  bother  me." 

Leslie  broke  out  laughing.  His  brutal  want 
of  tact  was  only  amusing. 

"  I  forgive  your  incivility,"  she  said,  "  because 
you  are  so  nice  and  funny.  1  do  love  to  be 
amused." 

184 


With  Feet  of  Clay 

"You  do  nothing  but  make  fun  of  me," 
said  the  young  fellow.  "I'd  like  to  know  how 
any  man  could  ever  make  love  to  you." 

"The  right  man  would  find  it  quite  easy,  I 
suppose.  Like  all  very  young  men,  you  are 
too  conceited  to  realize  that  I  make  it  thorny 
on  purpose  to  discourage  you." 

Miss  Scarborough  smiled  at  him  so  pleasantly 
as  she  made  this  biting  remark  that  Carstairs 
blinked  his  eyes  at  her,  as  if  he  did  not  see 
distinctly. 

"I'm  not  as  young  as  you  are  by  several 
years,"  he  said  at  last. 

"Oh  yes,  you  are.  I'm  hundreds  of  years 
older  than  you.  I  am  so  old  that  I  have  lived 
past  you.  I  have  left  you  years  behind  me, 
and  as  I  am  still  living  at  the  same  rate,  you 
never  could  catch  up  with  me." 

"I  could  if  you  would  help  me,  Leslie." 

"Don't  call  me  Leslie,"  cried  Miss  Scar 
borough,  frowning.  "You  take  advantage  of 
our  informality.  Why  won't  you  be  reason 
able?" 

"That's  just  it.  I  can't  be  reasonable  when 
I'm  with  you.  You  drive  reason  out  of  my 
head." 

Miss  Scarborough  sat  up  very  straight  and 
looked  at  him.  She  never  had  believed  him 
serious  before.  She  was  a  girl  over  whom 
185 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

men  went  to  pieces  so  easily  and  recovered 
from  such  lapses  so  suddenly  that  she  knew 
the  danger  of  believing  too  much.  But  Car- 
stairs'  tone  disconcerted  her. 

"  I  believe  in  my  soul  that  the  boy  likes  me 
in  earnest/'  she  said,  slowly. 

"You  know  I  do,"  he  said,  quietly.  "You 
are  the  only  girl  I  know  that  shakes  me  up  to 
such  an  extent  that  I  loathe  the  thing  I  am." 

Miss  Scarborough  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"Do  I  do  that  really  and  truly?  Shake 
hands  with  me.  I  agree  with  you  perfectly. 
/  loathe  the  thing  you  are  !  Turn  around  ; 
forget  everything  you  believe  and  believe  just 
the  opposite;  like  all  your  dislikes  and  hate 
all  your  present  loves,  and  then  we  will  talk 
about  it." 

Carstairs  colored. 

"Do  you  mean  that?"  he  said,  huskily,  hold 
ing  the  hand  she  held  out  to  him  in  both  of  his. 

"Yes,  I  do.  I  think  that  if  you  were  just 
the  opposite  of  all  you  are  now  you  would  be 
lovely." 

She  laughed  a  little  helplessly.  His  intent, 
devouring  gaze  unsteadied  her. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  have  that  sound  so  funny," 
she  said,  apologetically. 

Carstairs  drew  in  a  sharp  breath  triumphant 
ly.  Her  little  apology  was  the  first  break  in 
186 


With  Feet  of  Clay 

that  composure  of  hers  which  he  found  so  un 
nerving.  He  looked  so  manly  and  determined 
that  Miss  Scarborough  viewed  his  possibilities 
in  a  feminine  flash  and  allowed  herself  to  drift 
a  moment  into  the  current  of  his  will.  It  was 
one  of  those  rare,  potential  moments  when  a 
woman  lets  herself  think  for  the  first  time  of 
this  particular  man  as  her  husband.  Carstairs 
still  held  her  hand. 

"  If  he  could  always  be  like  this,"  she  thought. 

He  seemed  to  divine  her  fleeting  feeling. 

"  I  am  not  afraid  of  Seelye  now,"  he  boasted, 
with  premature  confidence. 

Miss  Scarborough  crimsoned  and  snatched 
away  her  hand. 

"It's  all  over/'  she  said.  "I  take  everything 
back.  You  make  me  ill  with  your  hopeless 
youth.  That  was  the  speech  of  a  lad  in  knick 
erbockers." 

"  It  wasn't  that  at  all,"  cried  Carstairs,  angri 
ly.  "  It  was  the  mention  of  Seelye's  name  that 
upset  you.  Your  whole  expression  changed." 

"It's  of  no  use,"  said  Miss  Scarborough, 
ignoring  his  outburst  and  spreading  her  hands 
out.  "I  let  myself  drift  for  one  moment,  but 
the  shock  was  too  rude.  Go  your  ways  and 
leave  me  to  go  mine.  I  can't  stand  your  Ego. 
I've  got  one  of  my  own.  The  reaction  has  set 
in." 

187 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

"It  was  Seelye's  name,"  persisted  Carstairs, 
doggedly.  "Your  very  look  changed." 

Miss  Scarborough  faced  him  vehemently. 

"What  if  it  did?"  she  cried.  "I  cannot  help 
it.  I  never  tried  to  wear  a  mask  before  you. 
You  know  I  admire  Mr.  Seelye.  You  know 
I  used  to  hate  him — I  used  to  tell  you  I  did, 
when  you  praised  him  to  me  by  the  hour.  If 
I  know  him  better  now,  I  am  not  ashamed  to 
admit  that  I  was  wrong.  'Consistency  is  the 
bugbear  of  little  minds. ' ''' 

"Then  your  mind  must  be  over- size,"  said 
Carstairs,  with  an  evil  grin. 

Miss  Scarborough  simply  smiled.  His  anger 
never  disturbed  her.  She  could  cope  with  that. 
It  was  only  his  conceit  which  sickened  her, 
and  made  her  long  for  unlimited  open  air — 
some  vast  wilderness  in  wrhich  to  pray  out  loud 
her  thankfulness  that  she  wasn't  married  to 
him  and  forced  to  listen  to  it  always.  They 
stood  looking  at  each  other  in  the  gathering 
twilight.  Carstairs  watched  her  hungrily,  full 
of  a  blind  fury  at  himself  for  having  lost  the 
one  step — the  only  step  he  had  ever  made  tow 
ards  her  favor.  He  hardly  knew  how  he  had 
done  it.  His  perception  was  not  keen,  but  he 
felt  that  it  was  capable  of  being  made  keen; 
that  his  blunted  sensibilities  had  possibilities 
if  he  could  win  Leslie  Scarborough 
188 


With  Feet  of  Clay 

Her  keenness  stung  him  with  the  double 
pang  of  a  punctured  Ego  and  the  sense  of  what 
he  himself  lacked.  She  supplemented  him  with 
such  fatal  accuracy  that  in  spite  of  what  he 
considered  her  cruelty  to  him  it  was  the  over 
powering  desire  of  his  life,  just  at  present,  to 
have  her  love. 

"I  hate  that  man  Seelye,"  he  said  at  length. 

"  Don't  say  it,"  she  said,  quickly.  "  Mr.  Seelye 
is  one  of  the  few  men  I  know  whom  I  find  it 
possible  to  respect.  He  is  a  man  of  principle." 

"  I  believe  he  is  in  love  with  you,"  said  Car- 
stairs,  with  swift  retrospection. 

"You  said  an  hour  ago  that  he  wasn't,  and 
you  were  right  the  first  time.  He  is  not." 

"A  man  of  principle!"  burst  out  Carstairs. 
"How  easily  you  women  are  gulled.  I  know 
of  only  one  man  worth  while  being  the  hero  of 
women  like  you,  who  must  worship  somebody, 
but  he  is  too  big  and  fine  even  for  you.  You 
wouldn't  like  Trelawney  if  you  knew  him. 
He  refused  a  deal  to-day  by  which  he  could 
have  cleaned  up  an  even  hundred  per  cent., 
because  it  was  a  bit  shady,  and  I  have  every 
reason  to  believe  that  his  business  needs  money 
badly.  That's  what  I  call  fine!  But  Seelye! 
Seelye  makes  grand-stand  plays.  He  is  always 
theatrical,  and  you,  as  clever  as  you  are,  can't 
see  it.  Principle!  Bah!" 
189 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

"  But  I  have  proof  of  it,"  cried  Leslie,  eagerly. 
"  You  don't  know.  He  broke  off — ah,  I  forgot. 
I  can't  tell  you.  Besides,  you  would  not  believe. 
You  believe  in  nothing." 

"I  believe  in  you,"  said  Carstairs,  unsteadily. 
"And  until  you  utterly  turn  your  back  on  me 
and  cut  me  adrift  I'm  going  to  keep  on  caring 
for  you." 


II 


It  happened  quite  suddenly  when  Leslie  had 
all  but  given  up  expecting  it.  Miss  Scar 
borough  came  with  her  victoria  to  take  Mrs. 
Coffyn  to  pay  a  call  on  an  Englishwoman  whom 
Leslie  had  known  in  London,  and  who  was  in 
America  for  the  first  time. 

"1  need  moral  support,  Agnes,  to  undergo 
with  Christian  fortitude  the  insulting  com 
parisons  she  will  make.  She  is  at  the  Waldorf, 
but  its  very  luxury  will  be  an  irritation  to  her, 
and  she  will  take  it  out  on  me.  So  come  and 
help  me  to  be  a  lady,  for  I  shall  feel  like  scalp 
ing  her  before  we  leave." 

As  they  drove  smartly  along  Fifth  Avenue, 
partly  concealed  under  their  fluttering  parasols, 
they  met  Seelye  walking  towards  them.  The 
faces  of  all  three  changed  consciously  in  the 
brief  moment  of  recognition.  Then  involun- 
190 


With  Feet  of  Clay 

tarily  Leslie  and  Agnes  looked  at  each  other, 
and  reached  for  each  other's  hands  down  under 
the  folds  of  their  gowns. 

"Ah— h,"  breathed  Mrs.  Coffyn,  "isn't  he 
magnificent!" 

Leslie  faced  her  with  wistful  eyes. 

"I'm  sorry  I  ever  knew  him/'  she  said;  "I 
never  dreamed,  outside  of  books,  of  the  possi 
bility  of  meeting  any  one  for  whom  I  have 
such  an  impersonal,  spiritual  adoration.  I 
have  made  an  idol  of  him." 

"I  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Mrs.  Coffyn, 
quickly.  "I  feel  that  way  about  him  myself. 
He  is  an  ideal  gentleman  —  a  sort  of  King 
Arthur.  I  am  afraid  you  have  misunderstood 
me,  Leslie,"  she  went  on,  with  a  little  catch  in 
her  breath.  "I  am  thankful  the  other  men 
seem  to  have  noticed  nothing,  but  you — well, 
you  are  a  woman,  and,  besides,  I  talked  rather 
plainly  to  you  one  morning.  But  there  has 
been  very  little  of  what  you  may  have  thought. 
Of  course  I  can't  tell  just  how  it  may  have 
looked  to  you,  because  I  was  on  the  inside,  but 
if  you  think  that  very  much  was  said — "  she 
broke  off  helplessly. 

"I  think  nothing,"  said  Leslie,  stolidly. 

"Yes,  but  you  do — you  must  have!"  cried 
Mrs.  Coffyn.  "  I  have  sometimes  thought  that 
you  believed  that  I — cared  for  him.  It  may 
191 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

have  looked  that  way.  But  I  didn't — I  mean, 
I  didn't  as  much  as  you  think.  It  was  only 
that  he  was  so  devoted  and  so  considerate  and 
sympathetic.  He  understands  me.  I  know 
Frank  loves  me — I  know  it!  But  he  has  got 
over  showing  it  in  the  little  ways  in  which 
he  used  to  do  when  we  were  first  married.  He 
used  to  be  so  sweet  to  me  —  you  can't  imag 
ine  when  you  see  his  indifference  nowadays 
(which  he  doesn't  mean;  I'm  sure  of  that) 
— how  dear  he  used  to  be.  He  was  full  of  the 
gentlest,  tenderest  little  ways.  And  I  miss 
them,  Leslie!  I  miss  them  terribly.  I'm  still 
young.  I'm  only  twenty-seven,  and  it  is  too 
soon  to  give  up  all  love-making  from  my  own 
husband.  It  makes  me  miss  it  more  to  be  with 
a  girl  like  you  and  see  men  in  love  with  you, 
as  men  used  to  be  with  me,  and  looking  at  you 
as  though  they  loved  the  very  thought  of  you, 
and  seeing  every  move  you  make  whether  they 
are  looking  at  you  or  not,  and  hearing  every 
word  you  speak  even  if  they  are  talking  to  some 
body  else.  It  used  to  be  that  way  with  Frank 
and  me.  Then  it  fell  away,  as  it  so  often  does. 
I  don't  know  why.  Perhaps  it  was  partly  my 
fault.  I  gave  up  some  little  ways  I  once  had 
with  Frank,  because  he  did  not  seem  to  care 
for  them,  and  I  grew  tired  of  being  unnoticed. 
It  used  to  be  that  when  he  was  reading,  if  I 
192 


With  Feet  of  Clay 

put  my  hand  on  his  hair,  he  would  take  my 
hand  and  kiss  it — half  unconsciously  it  seemed. 
Then  he  got  so  he  only  grunted  when  I  did  it. 
You  needn't  laugh,  Leslie.  The  time  will 
come  when  you  will  be  thankful  to  have  a  caress 
received  by  your  husband  with  a  grunt.  But 
even  that  recognition  has  ceased.  I  believe 
that  nothing  short  of  dropping  a  book  on  Frank's 
head  would  make  him  look  up  now.  Oh,  it's 
all  wrong,  I  know,  but  when  Mr.  Seelye  came 
and  began  to  render  me  all  the  little  trivial  at 
tentions  of  forestalling  my  wants  and  making 
me  feel  of  some  importance,  I  couldn't  help 
being  pleased.  I  should  have  been  a  stone  if 
I  had  failed  to  respond.  I  didn't  think  he  was 
going  to  care  so  much.  Then  when  he  found 
that  there  was  danger  in  it  for  both — yes,  Les 
lie,  there  was  even  danger  to  me — don't  look 
so  shocked — he  took  all  the  burden  on  his  own 
shoulders  and  withdrew.  He  withdrew  for  a 
principle,  Leslie!  Think  of  that!  You  know 
you  have  always  said  that  most  men  had  princi 
ples  about  everything  else  in  the  world  except 
about  women.  Now  here  is  a  hero  who  was 
no  will-o'-the-wisp.  He  didn't  wait  to  be  lured 
away  by  another  woman.  He  still  cares  for 
me,  and  it  does  not  somehow  strike  me  as  strange 
in  him,  when  I  say  that  I  believe  he  always 
will." 

N  193 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

"I  believe  you  are  right,  Agnes.  I  honestly 
do.  Ah,  we  women  understand  men.  We 
give  them  credit  for  honor  and  manliness  in 
spite  of  what  their  fellow -men  say.  I  never 
before  knew  of  a  man  giving  up  a  woman  when 
there  was  not  another  woman  in  the  case." 

"Neither  did  I.  That  is  why  I  have  made 
such  an  idol  of  Mr.  Seelye.  I  am  not  in  love 
with  him,  and  yet  I  can  truthfully  say  that  I 
adore  him." 

"So  can  I  !"  cried  Leslie,  facing  her  with 
humid  eyes.  "He  is  a  man  in  a  thousand." 

"He  goes  nowhere,  I  believe,"  pursued  Mrs. 
Coffyn.  "He  is  never  known  to  pay  a  social 
call.  He  is  exiling  himself  for  me." 

Leslie  was  silent. 

"I  wish  he  liked  you  better,  dear,"  Mrs. 
Coffyn  went  on.  "  You  two  never  hit  it  off  very 
well,  did  you?  He  used  to  tell  me  that  he  felt 
your  mental  condemnation  in  the  very  at 
mosphere.  He  said  he  never  could  get  away 
from  it.  I  never  could  see  that  you  particularly 
disapproved  of  anything.  You  always  joined 
in  everything  that  was  said  and  done.  But 
he  felt  things  peculiarly.  He  used  to  say  to 
me,  suddenly,  'Look  at  Miss  Scarborough 
now/  and  I  would  look,  but  I  never  saw  any 
thing.  He  used  to  say  that  at  heart  you  were 
a  Puritan." 

194 


With  F^et  of  Clay 

Still  Miss  Scarborough  said  nothing. 

"I  never  shall  forget  your  exquisite  tact 
through  it  all,  Leslie,  dear.  It  made  me  love 
you.  I  shall  always  love  you,  because  I  too  felt 
that  you  were  a  moral  support.  I  don't  sup 
pose  I  could  have  gone  too  far  with  you  there. 
Mr.  Seelye  used  to  say  that  your  abandonment 
was  all  assumed — that  you  really  never  let 
yourself  go.  And  I  grew  to  feel  that  in  a  way. 
You  were  a  real  help  to  me,  dearest.  I  don't 
believe  anything  could  ever  come  between  us 
now." 

"Oh  yes,  it  could,"  said  Leslie,  laughing. 
"No  woman's  friendship  could  stand  the  test 
of  a  man's  coming  between  them." 

She  shut  her  parasol  as  the  carriage  drew  up 
before  the  Waldorf. 

"Oh,  but  that  is  impossible  in  our  case," 
protested  Mrs.  Coffyn,  as  she  reached  for  her 
card-case. 

Leslie  wondered  uneasily  what  Agnes  would 
say  if  she  knew. 


Ill 


Seelye,  being  even  more  of  an  egoist  than 
most,  was  capable  of  misunderstanding  a  girl 
like  Miss  Scarborough  exquisitely. 

Her  respect,  which  she  withheld  from  him 
195 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

until  his  sensitiveness  forced  him  to  make  the 
most  radical  move  of  his  life  in  order  to  compel 
it,  she  now,  with  the  royal  generosity  of  her 
nature,  lavished  upon  him  without  stint  or 
reason.  He  revelled  in  this  fine  distinction 
with  the  reacting  joy  of  his  previous  discomfort, 
and  lapped  himself  in  the  tropical  warmth  of 
her  appreciation  with  all  the  satisfaction  of 
the  mentally  thin-skinned  who  dread  the  cold 
judgment  of  the  world. 

But  Miss  Scarborough  was  entirely  imper 
sonal  in  her  regard  for  Seelye — a  thing  which 
Seelye  of  all  men  was  incapable  of  suspecting. 
What  she  felt  for  him  would  have  been  perfect 
ly  proper  had  Seelye  been  married  to  another 
woman,  or  had  he  been  the  apostle  of  a  lost 
cause.  It  was  hero-worship  which  she  gave 
him,  with  no  more  personality  in  it  than  she 
would  have  bestowed  upon  a  King  Arthur. 

For  this  reason  she  took  more  personal  com 
fort  out  of  Seelye's  companionship  than  from 
that  of  any  other  man  she  knew.  All  the  other 
men  who  were  as  devoted  as  he,  either  were  in 
love  with  her  or  were  going  to  be.  This  dis 
turbed  her  of  course,  as  she  cared  for  none 
of  them,  either  actually  or  potentially.  There 
was  but  one — always  in  the  background — who 
seemed  to  menace  her  as  a  possible  husband. 
There  were  so  many  reasons  why  she  should 
1 06 


With  Feet  of  Clay 

not  marry  Trelawney,  and  yet  he  attracted  her 
with  such  fatal  magnetism,  that  she  seized 
upon  the  hope  of  Carstairs  or  almost  anybody 
else  to  protect  herself  from  herself.  But  always 
at  heart  she  knew  that  no  man  could  hold  her 
forever  like  Trelawney.  He  embodied  to  her 
all  that  was  fine,  all  that  was  noble  and  dis 
tinguished  in  life.  Although  she  seldom  saw 
him,  he  controlled  her  through  space  with  per 
fect  ease.  It  was  only  that  her  restless  spirit 
strained  at  its  leash  and  would  not  yield,  that 
kept  her  from  admitting  to  herself  that  Trelaw 
ney,  because  he  embodied  the  very  opposite  of 
all  these  men,  with  their  frivolity  and  shallow 
wit  and  their  evil  habits  of  wasting  time,  would 
eventually  be  her  master,  chiefly  because  he 
already  had  become  his  own. 

But  with  Seelye  she  was  completely  at  ease. 
She  felt  sure  that  he  expected  nothing  of  her. 
It  was  so  unusual  for  her  to  be  able  to  feel  so. 
It  had  all  the  piquant  charm  of  a  platonic  friend 
ship  without  any  of  the  fatal  possibilities — nay, 
certainties — of  tragic  dissolution.  His  love  story 
was  so  recent,  so  hopeless,  and  so  perfectly 
understood  by  her  that  he  was  safer  for  a  com 
panion  than  a  freshly  made  widower,  for  the 
sacredness  of  his  grief  was  tempered  by  a  certain 
earthly  piquancy  which  removed  it  from  the 
danger  of  the  solely  spiritual  and  gave  it  a 
197 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

temporal  flavor  which  acted  as  mental  ballast. 
The  only  uneasiness  Miss  Scarborough  ex 
perienced  was  that  she  had  disregarded  her 
intuitions  and  had  allowed  herself  to  be  con 
vinced  by  reason.  That,  to  a  man,  sounds 
absurd,  but  logic  in  the  hands  of  a  woman  is  a 
dangerous  weapon.  It  goes  off  when  least  ex 
pected,  and  does  no  end  of  damage,  and,  like 
the  investigations  with  fire-arms,  does  most 
harm  to  the  investigator. 

Leslie  had  begun  by  calling  Seelye  the  suprem- 
est  egoist  she  ever  had  known,  and  of  with 
holding  all  faith  in  him.  Now  she  had  believed 
the  evidence  of  her  own  senses,  as  her  reason 
compelled  her  to  do,  and  had  swung  clear  to 
the  other  extreme.  Once  or  twice  before  in  her 
life  she  had  committed  a  similar  crime  against 
her  intuition  and  had  come  to  grief  therefrom. 
So  at  first  she  watched  Seelye  warily,  wondering 
in  what  direction  he  would  break  out  and  show 
her  that  she  again  had  been  wrong.  But  as 
month  after  month  passed,  and  he  maintained 
the  same  chastened,  dignified  demeanor,  her 
vigilance  relaxed,  and  she  prostrated  herself 
before  her  idol  with  the  abandonment  of  delight 
which  only  the  hero-worshipper  knows. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  said  to  him  one  after 
noon  early  in  October,  "it  is  a  great  comfort 
to  get  back  to  you  again.     I  really  missed  you 
198 


With  Feet  of  Clay 

while  I  was  away,  and  that  one  week  you  were 
with  us  at  Newport  did  not  count  at  all.  It 
was  all  so  trivial — so  not-worth-while.  You 
make  the  real  things  seem  more  near." 

Seelye  only  looked  at  her  and  smiled.  To 
tell  the  truth,  he  was  still  desperately  afraid 
of  her.  He  was  afraid  of  her  wit  and  afraid 
of  her  condemnation.  He  was  clever  enough 
to  appreciate  her,  and  her  very  subtlety  allured 
him.  He  knew  what  an  absurd  idealist  she 
was.  He  had  seen  her  grief  at  the  dislodgment 
of  some  of  her  lesser  idols,  and  he  wondered  at, 
but  was  respectful  of,  its  poignancy.  He  knew 
how  high  her  ideals  were,  how  impossible  it 
was  to  attain  them,  and  how  evanescent  her 
regard  would  be  should  she  discover  that  she 
had  been  in  any  way  duped. 

He  never  had  dared  take  advantage  of  any 
of  the  things  she  said  to  him,  partly  because 
he  felt  some  natural  shame  at  his  own  sus 
ceptibility,  and  because  in  a  blind  way  he  felt 
that,  if  she  had  begun  to  care  for  him  in  the  way 
her  words  would  under  ordinary  circumstances 
seem  to  imply,  she  never  would  have  spoken 
them.  Therefore  he  generally  sat  silent  before 
her,  only  looking  at  her  in  the  comprehending, 
appreciative  way  which  develops  unexpected 
powers  of  monologue  in  a  woman  who  makes 
thought  a  habit. 

199 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

"A  girl  can  take  real  comfort  with  so  few 
men,"  Leslie  went  on,  plaintively.  "Men  area 
peculiar  race  of  beings.  As  a  friend  they  never 
treat  a  woman  quite  as  she  likes  to  be  treated. 
They  make  her  a  little  too  much  of  a  '  good  fel 
low/  and  forget  that,  in  spite  of  her  comradeship, 
at  heart  she  is  much  more  of  a  woman  than  a 
comrade,  and  so  they  don't  try  to  comprehend 
her.  That  is  why  men  are  only  interesting  when 
they  are  in  love  with  one,  and  then,  from  a  psy 
chological  stand-point,  they  are  also  failures,  for 
they  can't  reason  and  diagnose  and  differentiate 
when  they  are  in  love.  So  men  don't  under 
stand  women  even  then.  But  you  are  different 
from  both  classes.  You  have  a  way  of  making 
me  feel  that  you  are  trying  to  understand  me. 
It  is  very  flattering." 

"I  don't  do  it  to  flatter  you,"  said  Seelye, 
quietly.  "It  is  only  that  you  read  me  through 
and  through,  and  you  know  the  greatest  desire 
I  have  is  to  comprehend  you  and  to  be  of  some 
use  to  you." 

Seelye  watched  her  narrowly  to  see  the  effect 
of  his  last  words.  He  never  had  dared  to  say 
quite  so  much  before,  and  she  was  so  keen  he 
was  afraid  she  would  fly  at  him  with  a  complete 
discovery  of  his  whole  attitude.  His  mental 
poise  was  that  of  being  constantly  prepared  to 
dodge  her  attack. 

200 


With  Feet  of  Clay 

Miss  Scarborough  ignored  the  last  few  words, 
and  passed  her  hand  across  her  brow. 

"No,"  she  said,  slowly,  "no,  you  are  wrong. 
I  cannot  read  you.  I  try  constantly,  but  it 
seems  as  if  there  were  a  veil  just  back  of  your 
eyes,  between  them  and  your  brain,  and  I  can 
not  make  things  match.  Your  words  sound 
one  way  and  your  face  disclaims  them.  You 
are  a  good  deal  of  a  puzzle  to  me." 

Seelye  glanced  down  and  colored. 

"  You  are  the  most  wonderful  woman  I  know/' 
he  said.  "  I  wish  I  had  you  for  my  conscience." 

"  That  also  is  different,"  said  Leslie,  dreamily. 
"  Most  men  don't  want  a  conscience." 

"  They  would  if  they  knew  that  in  acquiring 
one  they  obtained  you." 

Leslie  laughed. 

"  It  is  ideal,"  she  declared.  "  Even  as  friends, 
you  never  forget  to  pay  compliments.  You 
must  have  Southern  blood  in  your  veins." 

"  No,  not  Southern  —  French.  My  mother 
was  a  Frenchwoman." 

"Then,  alas,  that  is  not  so  genuine  as  the 
Southern.  Southern  compliments  to  women 
spring  from  the  heart;  French,  from  the  head. 
But  a  Frenchman  lays  his  hand  upon  his  heart, 
and  that  misleads  the  unthinking." 

"Don't  say  that,  Miss  Scarborough,"  cried 
Seelye,  stung  by  that  idle  speech  into  showing 
201 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

some  feeling.  "That  sounds  like  what  you 
used  to  think  of  me." 

"Ah!"  said  Leslie,  quickly,  "forgive  me." 
She  held  out  her  hand  to  him.  He  took  it  and 
kissed  it  with  passionate  gratitude,  then  drew 
back,  shocked  at  his  temerity. 

Miss  Scarborough  smiled. 

"I  don't  mind,"  she  said,  gently.  "Pray 
don't  be  so  afraid  of  what  I  am  going  to  think 
of  you.  It  hurts  me — it  always  hurts  me  when 
people  are  afraid  of  me,  but  you,  most  of  all. 
Sometimes  you  act  as  if  you  were  afraid  I  was 
going  to  bite  you.  I'm  not,  I  promise  you." 

They  both  laughed  a  little.  It  was  growing 
dusk.  There  was  an  open  fire  of  logs  on  the 
andirons,  which  lighted  Seelye's  face.  Miss 
Scarborough  was  in  the  shadow. 

"  I  am  only  afraid  of  you  because  I  want  your 
good  opinion.  I  want  it  more  than  I  want  any 
thing  else  in  this  world — except  one  thing." 

Leslie  drew  in  her  breath  in  sudden  fear. 
She  hoped  he  was  not  going  to  talk  of  Mrs. 
Coffyn  to  her.  She  half  rose  to  ring  for  the 
lights.  It  is  generally  the  dusk  which  makes 
one  want  to  confide.  Seelye  saw  her  little  im 
petuous  movement  and  hurried  on. 

"  You  are  so  sweet  and  so  unselfish  that  you 
never  understood  me.  A  woman  with  more 
vanity  than  you  have  would  have  known  me 
202 


With  Feet  of  Clay 

better.  Circumstances  misrepresented  me  to 
you  and  made  me  seem  more  involved  in  a  cer 
tain  affair  than  I  really  was.  Your  romantic 
imagination  did  the  rest.  I  never  felt  at  all  seri 
ous  in  the  matter  until  the  Puritan  in  you  con 
demned  me.  I  can't  stand  it  to  be  condemned 
by  a  woman,  especially  by  a  clever  woman. 
You  never  knew  it,  but  it  was  you  who  made 
me  respond  to  your  toast  that  night.  I  hadn't 
meant  to.  I  was  only  waiting  for  Fate  to  show 
me  some  way  out  of  the  tangle.  I  am  nothing 
but  the  football  of  Fate.  You  have  a  way  of 
commanding  people,  of  forcing  events.  You 
control  me.  You  control  Carstairs — poor  fool, 
who  imagines  himself  in  love  with  you.  You 
control  Frank  Coffyn.  He  obeys  a  look  from 
you,  and  although  she  does  not  recognize  the 
force  which  controls  her,  you  also  control  Mrs. 
Coffyn.  It  must  be  a  source  of  never-ending 
satisfaction  to  a  woman  to  realize  her  power  over 
man — such  power  as  you  have.  I  knew  then 
that  some  day  I  could  tell  you  how  I  withdrew 
from  another  woman's  influence  in  order  to  com 
pel  your  respect.  I  meant  then  to  win  your 
love.  But  I  never  dared  to  speak  of  it  until 
to-day.  You  have  been  so  gentle  and  sweet 
to-day  that  I  felt  perhaps  you  knew  how  I  loved 
you  and  that  you  would  let  me  speak." 

Seelye  leaned  forward,  drawing  his  gloves 
203 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

through  the  palm  of  his  other  hand,  and  trying 
to  discern  Miss  Scarborough's  face.  She  sat 
with  her  head  against  the  back  of  a  high  carved 
teak-wood  chair.  Her  hands,  loosely  clasped 
in  her  lap,  had  not  moved  since  he  began  to 
speak.  But  her  face,  turned  from  him,  was  wet 
with  the  tears  which  rained  down  her  cheeks 
and  which  she  made  no  effort  either  to  dr}'  or 
to  check. 

Her  first  sensation  was  of  falling  through  in 
finite  space,  dizzy  and  blinded.  Then  a  great 
homesickness  overcame  her  —  the  lieimiceh  of 
the  soul  for  which  there  is  no  cure. 

Seelye  was  elated  by  her  silence. 

"I  know  I  am  not  quite  worthy  of  you,"  he 
went  on,  "  but  you  have  started  me  in  the  right 
way.  If  you  are  good  enough  to  say  that  we 
can  go  together,  /  have  no  fear  of  the  future. 
You  have  been  so  sweet  as  to  say  that  you  de 
pend  on  me,  that  I  seemed  to  bring  the  real 
things  of  life  more  near,  and  that  is  a  sufficient 
satisfaction  for  me  to  know.  If  I  can  only  be 
of  service  to  you — " 

Seelye  was  not  generally  so  cold  a  wooer,  but 
there  was  something  about  the  stillness  of  the 
figure  in  the  chair  opposite  which  made  him 
guarded. 

"Why  are  you  crying,  dear?"  he  exclaimed. 
"What  have  I  said  to  make  you  cry?" 

204 


With  Feet  of  Clay 

"  I  am  crying  for  joy,  I  think,"  she  said,  coldly. 
She  sat  up  as  he  sprang  towards  her,  and 
hurried  on,  "But  hardly  the  joy  you  think.  I 
am  glad  to  get  my  balance  again.  I  am  glad 
to  know  that  I  am  well  punished  for  disregard 
ing  my  intuitions.  You  were  in  love  with 
Agnes!"  she  cried,  suddenly.  "How  dare  you 
deny  it  to  me?" 

"I  don't  deny  it,"  declared  Seelye,  surprised 
that  she  would  mention  it,  but  laying  it  to  the 
fact  that  she  was  jealous.  If  she  cared  enough 
to  show  jealousy,  he  was  quite  willing  to  affirm 
what  he  had  just  denied.  "I  was  in  love  with 
her." 

"And  then?"  questioned  Miss  Scarborough. 

"Then  I  came  under  a  more  powerful  in 
fluence,  and  fell  in  love  with  you." 

Miss  Scarborough  began  to  laugh  wildly, 
then  she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and 
burst  into  tears.  Her  golden  idol  stood  revealed 
before  her  with  feet  of  clay. 

"In  Heaven's  name,  why  do  you  act  so 
strangely?"  cried  Seelye.  "What  am  I  to 
think?" 

"I  wouldn't  think  at  all  if  I  were  you,"  said 
Miss  Scarborough,  reappearing.  "  Leave  that 
for  me  to  do.  I've  thinking  enough  to  do  to 
keep  me  busy  for  a  small  eternity." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  began  Seelye,  anx- 
205 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

iously.  "Have  I  misunderstood  you?  Are 
you  so  unlike  other  women  that  you  are  not 
pleased  to  have  outgeneralled  so  beautiful  a 
woman  as  Mrs.  Coffyn?" 

"Dear  Carstairs!"  murmured  Miss  Scarbor 
ough. 

"What  has  Carstairs  got  to  do  with  it?"  de 
manded  Seelye,  his  face  darkening. 

"  I  have  misjudged  the  boy,  that  is  all.  I  used 
to  think  he  monopolized  a  certain  quality.  But 
he  doesn't." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Seelye, 
helplessly.  "I  once  thought  I  read  you  like 
an  open  book,  but  somehow  you  seem  so  far 
away  from  me.  Have  you  forgotten  that  I 
love  you,  and  that  we  are  going  to  be  togeth 
er  always?" 

He  leaned  towards  her,  but  she  shrank  away 
from  him. 

"Oh,  don't,"  she  said.  "It  is  all  a  mistake, 
and  everything  is  over.  All  our  beautiful  friend 
ship,  which  has  been  so  satisfying,  and  which 
meant  so  much  to  me,  is  at  an  end.  How  could 
you  do  it?" 

There  was  bitter  reproach  in  her  tones. 

He  laughed  indulgently  and  slipped  his  arm 
around  her  waist.  She  faced  him  with  blazing 
eyes. 

"  Pardon  me,  dear.  I  only  meant  to  say  that 
206 


With  Feet  of  Clay 

the  friendship  will  be  superseded  by  something 
better.     Don't  you  understand?" 

Leslie  was  silent. 

"You  loved  Agnes  first  and  then  you  loved 
me/'  she  said. 

Seelye  dared  not  reply.  He  did  not  know 
what  she  wanted  him  to  say.  She  raised  her 
eyes  to  his. 

"Do  you  know  that  I  am  a  hero-worshipper?" 
she  asked,  "  and  that  what  I  imagined  I  liked 
in  you  was  because  you  were  a  hero  —  unlike 
other  men?" 

"No,  I  didn't  know  that  exactly,"  he  said, 
cautiously. 

"But  you  are  just  like  other  men.  Other 
men  love  one  girl  until  they  meet  one  who  at 
tracts  them  more." 

"  But  doesn't  it  flatter  you  to  know  that  you 
are  the  successful  one?"  asked  Seelye,  smiling. 

"  Alas !  I  am  anything  but  successful.  Please 
go,  Mr.  Seelye,  and  think  of  all  this  as  a  hideous 
mistake,  one  in  which  I  shall  suffer  quite  as 
much  as  you,  though  in  a  different  way." 

It  seemed  as  if  Seelye  could  not  be  made  to 
understand. 

"  But  if  you  shall  suffer,  dear  one,  why  send 
me  away?  Is  it  just  to  try  me — to  tease  me  a 
little  and  then  bring  me  back?" 

Leslie  looked  at  him. 

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Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

"No,"  she  said,  vehemently,  "it  is  not  that. 
If  you  must  have  the  truth  in  words,  I  do  not 
love  you  in  the  least,  nor  could  I  ever  bring  my 
self  to  love  you. 

Seelye  turned  white. 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  murmured.  "I  hoped — 
Good-bye,  Miss  Scarborough." 

Leslie  went  up -stairs  and  wrote  a  letter  to 
John  Trelawney. 


IV 


After  she  had  posted  her  letter  with  a  haste 
which  admitted  of  no  reconsideration,  she  spent 
her  evening  restlessly  and  went  to  bed  only  to 
lie  awake  all  night  and  wonder  if  the  morning 
would  never  come,  when  she  could  go  and  see 
Agnes  Coffyn.  She  felt  a  strange  yearning 
for  the  soft,  cooing  ways  which  Agnes  had, 
and  a  desire  to  right  herself  in  Agnes's  re 
gard.  Since  her  return  from  Newport  she  had 
purposely  avoided  Mrs.  Coffyn.  Not  that  she 
feared  her  reproaches,  but  because  she  knew 
that  Mrs.  Coffyn  did  not  know  how  often  Seelye 
visited  her.  Miss  Scarborough  thought  it  nei 
ther  delicate  to  tell  her  nor  quite  honest  to  with 
hold  it.  So  she  had  been  obliged  to  avoid  her. 

A  paragraph  in  the  morning  paper  arrested 
her  attention.  John  Trelawney  had  failed  in 
208 


With  Feet  of  Clay 

business.  Failed  honorably,  it  said.  His  bank 
had  even  offered  him  a  new  loan  to  carry  him, 
but  he  had  refused  it.  The  color  mounted  burn- 
ingly  to  Leslie  Scarborough's  cheeks  and  her 
hand  trembled.  She  remembered  what  Car- 
stairs  had  said  of  Trelawney's  refusing  that 
other  offer,  because  it  was  shady.  Here  he  had 
refused  a  clean  offer  because  from  his  knowl 
edge  of  the  inside  of  his  business  it  would  be  dis 
honorable  to  the  bank.  What  a  man  he  was! 
The  tears  rushed  to  her  eyes  as  she  thought  of 
Seelye,  and  her  heart  turned  forever  towards 
John  Trelawney.  Her  interview  with  Seelye 
had  been  the  influence  which  had  released  the 
gold  in  her  nature  and  had  burned  up  the  alloy. 
Her  eyes  flashed  with  delight  when  she  realized 
that  Trelawney  would  see  from  the  date  of  her 
letter  that  she  had  accepted  him  before  she 
knew  of  his  failure. 

It  was  with  some  eagerness  that  Leslie  rang 
the  bell  of  Mrs.  Coffyn's  apartment  in  Fifty- 
fifth  Street,  and  inquired  if  she  were  at  home. 
Usually  Leslie,  when  she  came  early,  was  ad 
mitted  to  Agnes's  room,  but  as  the  maid  brought 
her  word  that  Mrs.  Coffyn  was  dressing,  but 
would  be  in  presently,  and  begged  Miss  Scar 
borough  to  wait,  Leslie  sighed  with  impatience 
to  think  how  sadly  their  days  of  informality 
had  departed. 

O  209 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

In  half  an  hour  Agnes  came  dressed  for  the 
street.  Leslie  sprang  towards  her  impetuously, 
but  she  met  Mrs.  Coffyn's  outstretched  hand 
half  -  way,  and,  surprised  and  hurt,  she  only 
took  it  in  hers  a  moment  and  turned  back  to 
her  chair. 

"Are  you  going  out?"  she  said,  wondering 
at  the  formality  of  her  costume.  Agnes  was 
generally  invisible  until  twelve,  unless  her  in 
timate  callers  would  see  her  in  a  house-gown. 

"Oh  no,"  said  Mrs.  Coffyn.  "I  only  dressed 
to  see  you." 

"That  was  not  necessary,  Agnes.  I  am 
sorry  I  put  you  to  so  much  trouble." 

"I  wished  to  do  it,  Miss  Scarborough." 

Leslie  bit  her  lip. 

"  I  came  to  tell  you  an  important  bit  of  news, 
Agnes,  if  you  care  to  hear  it,"  she  said,  hesitat 
ingly. 

"Is  it  that  you  are  engaged?"  cried  Mrs. 
Coffyn,  wrenched  out  of  her  coolness  by  her 
intensity  of  feeling. 

"Yes/' said  Leslie,  in  astonishment;  "how 
did  you  know?" 

"Oh,  pray  don't  imagine  that  I  have  been 
so  blind  as  you  think.  I  have  known  of  Mr. 
Seelye's  attentions  to  you  ever  since  you  stopped 
calling  on  me.  You  are  such  a  sincere  friend 
— so  open,  so  honest!" 

210 


With  Feet  of  Clay 

"Agnes,"  cried  Leslie,  clasping  her  hands, 
"please,  please  be  careful  what  you  say!  You 
will  be  so  sorry  when  you  know/' 

"  I  shall  never  be  sorry  that  I  have  lost  a  false 
friend  —  one  who  stole  the  only  thing  out  of 
my  life  worth  having.  Probably  you  have  dis 
cussed  me  many  times.  I  dare  say  you  thought 
I  didn't  know  that  he  followed  you  to  Newport. 
I  know  all  about  it.  He  was  a  hero,  and  you 
dragged  him  down." 

Leslie  stood  up  with  a  white  face. 

"Oh,  I  must  go,  Agnes.  I  had  no  idea  you 
knew  about  Mr.  Seelye.  I  did  not  come  to 
speak  of  him  to  you.  I  came  to  tell  you  that 
I  am  going  to  marry  John  Trelawney." 

Miss  Scarborough  took  a  step  towards  the  door 
with  her  head  held  high  and  her  lips  quiver 
ing.  She  wanted  to  be  alone  where  she  could 
cry  over  the  loss  of  the  lovely  woman  she  had 
thought  Agnes  Coffyn  to  be.  Agnes's  vulgarity 
cut  Leslie  like  a  knife.  There  is  nothing  like 
travelling  together  or  being  jealous  to  bring  out 
the  innate  vulgarity  of  people's  natures. 

But  Leslie  was  stopped  by  Agnes's  hand  on 
her  arm.  Leslie's  white  face  shocked  Mrs. 
Coffyn  quite  as  much  as  her  last  announce 
ment. 

"John  Trelawney?  Oh,  Leslie,  dear,  forgive 
me !  Come  back  and  let  me  tell  you.  Oh, 
211 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

Leslie,  I  am  so  miserable  I"  She  broke  out 
crying.  "I  have  been  so  unhappy.  Don't 
lay  what  I  said  up  against  me.  I  love  you, 
Leslie!  I  want  you  for  a  friend.  Why  didn't 
you  tell  me?  I  have  grieved  over  this  all  sum 
mer.  See  how  thin  I  am.  I  had  to  give  up 
wearing  decollete  gowns.  I  can't  sleep  without 
an  opiate.  And  I  thought  it  was  Mr.  Seelye 
all  this  time.  Don't  be  shocked,  Leslie,  dear ! 
I  told  you  once  that  I  didn't  care  for  him,  but 
I  think  I  was  wrong.  For  just  as  soon  as  I  had 
told  you,  and  I  saw  that  you,  who  are  so  much 
cleverer  than  I,  thought  him  a  hero  too,  I  began 
to  care  for  him  differently.  You  know  I  was 
alone  all  the  time.  None  of  you  ever  came  to 
see  me  any  more,  and  Mr.  Seelye  had  stopped 
coming  too.  I  was  still  thinking  that  he  cared 
for  me  when  I  heard  of  his  devotion  to  you,  and 
it  made  me  wrild.  I  was  so  jealous  of  you.  I 
hated  you.  Forgive  me,  Leslie  !  You  are  going 
to  forgive  me!  I  can  see  it  in  your  dear  eyes. 
But  now  that  I  know  it  was  all  a  mistake  and 
that  he  has  not  been  making  love  to  you — oh, 
what  shall  I  do  ?  I — I  care  for  him  more  than 
ever  !" 

"Hush,  hush,  Agnes!  You  must  not  say  it 
aloud.  You  don't  mean  it  even  now." 

"Yes,  I  do!"  declared  Mrs.  Coffyn.  "  It  is  the 
first  time  I  have  dared  to  speak  it  aloud.  Have 
212 


With  Feet  of  Clay 

you  forgotten  how  grand  he  was  when  he  spoke 
out  that  night?  Have  you  forgotten  how  you 
used  to  say  that  outside  of  books  you  never 
knew  a  man  to  give  up  a  woman  for  principle?" 

"No,  I  have  not  forgotten,"  said  Leslie. 

"  Oh,  how  fine  he  is !  I  couldn't  have  blamed 
you  much  if  you  had  fallen  in  love  with  him, 
but  I  should  have  hated  you." 

She  began  to  cry  hysterically.  Leslie  never 
had  seen  her  in  such  a  condition. 

The  maid  Gilbert  appeared  at  the  door. 

"Shall  I  send  for  the  doctor,  Miss  Scar 
borough?  He  said  he  was  to  be  called  if  she 
got  bad." 

"Is  she  ill?  Are  you  ill,  Agnes?  Answer 
me." 

"Yes,  I  have  been  ill,  but  I  am  better.  See, 
I  have  stopped.  I  will  be  quite  calm.  You 
may  go,  Gilbert.  I'll  send  for  you  when  I  want 
you." 

"  I  almost  wish  he  had  been  in  love  with  you, 
Leslie,"  she  went  on,  when  the  maid  had  gone; 
"it  would  have  made  it  easier  to  forget  him. 
But  it's  because  he  is  so  noble  that  I  can't  get 
him  out  of  my  mind.  He  is  so  different  from 
other  men." 

Miss  Scarborough  smiled. 

"  What  would  you  say,  Agnes,  if  I  should  tell 
you  that  he  has  been  in  love  with  me?" 
213 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

Mrs.  Coffyn  dried  her  eyes  and  looked  up. 

"  I  should  be  glad — glad  beyond  words  to  ex 
press/'  she  said,  solemnly.  "Was  he?  I  know 
he  was.  I  can  see  by  your  face. " 

They  sat  looking  at  each  other  for  several 
minutes  in  silence.  Agnes's  face  kept  chang 
ing  its  expression  as  she  rapidly  reviewed  the 
facts  of  the  case  and  mentally  readjusted  her 
self. 

They  both  tried  to  speak  several  times,  then 
gave  it  up  and  simply  sat  looking  at  each 
other. 

"  When  did  he  tell  you?"  said  Agnes  at  length. 

"Yesterday." 

"  When  did  you  make  up  your  mind  to  marry 
John  Trelawney?" 

"Last  night." 

They  both  laughed,  then  got  up  and  kissed 
each  other. 

"Let's  telephone  to  Frank  that  we  will  lunch 
with  him  at  the  Club/'  said  Agnes. 

"Yes,  do!  Frank  is  such  a  dear!"  cried 
Leslie,  recognizing  Agnes's  mental  change  of 
base. 

Agnes  went  out  to  put  on  her  wraps.  She 
paused  at  the  door  and  said : 

"  Of  course  you  couldn't  have  loved  him  after 
knowing  everything." 

"Of  course  not,"  said  Leslie. 
214 


With  Feet  of  Clay 

She  turned  again  and  said : 

"Why  are  you  going  to  marry?" 

Leslie  faced  her  with  sudden  vehemence. 

"Because,  when  anything  goes  wrong,  or 
when  anything  goes  right,  when  I  am  ill  or 
well,  or  perplexed  or  worried,  I  always  come 
home  to  John  1" 


The  Junior  Prize  at  St.  Mary's 


The  Junior  Prize  at  St.  Mary's 


0  there  is  a  new  girl  at  this  time 
of  year/'  said  one  of  the  St.  Mary 
girls,  Helen  Van  Dorn,  to  the  group 
around  her.  "I  wonder  what  class 
she  will  enter?" 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Linda  Cun- 
diff ;  "  but  I  heard  that  she  was  a  Southern  heir 
ess  and  very  beautiful." 

"  If  she  is  Southern,  she  will  be  indolent  and 
not  particularly  bright.  And  as  to  being  an 
heiress  and  beautiful — all  Southern  girls  are 
said  to  be  that!"  said  a  third  speaker,  Mary 
Hayward,  a  little  contemptuously. 

"  Hush,  Mary !  You  forget  that  Carrie  is 
Southern,  and  we  all  know  that  she  is  anything 
but  indolent,"  said  Helen,  smiling  across  at 
Carrie  Tremaine.  "I  think  Southerners  are 
particularly  clever,  as  a  rule." 

"  Helen  Van  Dorn  has  a  good  word  for  every 
one.     I  wish  I  could  be  like  her,"  said  Mary, 
219 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

a  little  wistfully.  Helen  gave  the  hand  she  held 
a  grateful  squeeze. 

"  But  I  would  like  to  know  why  the  new  girl 
waited  until  nearly  December  to — " 

"Hush,  Mary  !  Here  she  comes!"  said  Car 
rie,  warningly.  And  they  saw  Miss  Keith,  the 
principal  of  St.  Mary's,  approaching,  followed 
by  a  young  lady.  Then  Miss  Keith  said : 

"  Miss  Van  Dorn,  I  wish  to  present  you  to  our 
new  friend,  Miss  Erskine,  and  I  will  leave  her 
to  your  care." 

From  the  moment  that  Nannie  Erskine  felt 
the  pressure  of  Helen's  hand-clasp,  and  saw  the 
friendly  light  in  her  blue  eyes,  she  loved  her 
with  all  the  intensity  of  her  warm  Southern 
heart. 

Helen  introduced  the  other  girls,  and  noticed 
with  surprise  that  there  was  no  trace  of  em 
barrassment  at  meeting  so  many  in  the  clear, 
open,  curious  gaze  of  the  new-comer. 

Rumor  had  not  erred  as  to  her  beauty.  She 
was  very  small,  but  not  too  much  so  to  be 
exquisitely  graceful.  Her  hair  was  a  sombre, 
dusky  black,  almost  inclined  to  fluffiness,  but 
was  drawn  down  smoothly  and  showed  plainly 
the  contour  of  her  regal  little  head.  Her  eyes 
were  large,  dark,  soft,  and  heavily  shaded. 

Mary  comprehended  all  this  in  one  sweeping 
glance.  "Well -shaped  head,"  she  thought. 

220 


The  Junior  Prize  at  St.  Mary's 

"  Looks  as  if  she  might  have  some  sense. "  And 
she  immediately  entered  into  conversation  with 
her,  to  draw  her  out.  She  talked  easily  and  well, 
in  answer  to  Mary's  adroit  questions,  and  there 
fore  made  a  good  impression  upon  that  some 
what  severe  young  woman. 

"  You  are  to  be  my  room-mate,  Miss  Erskine," 
said  Helen. 

"Am  I?  I  am  glad  of  that,"  said  Nannie, 
giving  her  quick  smile  and  holding  out  her 
hand  impulsively  to  Helen. 

"  So,  girls,  we  will  leave  you,  and  I  will  take 
Miss  Erskine  to  her  room."  Nannie  turned  to 
the  group  and  said,  lightly :  "  For  a  short  time, 
then,  good-bye.  We  shall  be  friends,  I  think?" 
She  turned  her  head  on  one  side,  and  made  her 
last  remark  almost  like  a  question. 

"Yes, indeed,"  they  answered,  heartily.  She 
smiled  and  nodded;  then  Helen  led  her  away. 

"She'll  do!"  said  Mary  Hay  ward,  tersely. 
And  the  facts  of  having  impressed  Mary  thus 
favorably,  and  of  being  given  to  Helen  Van 
Dorn  for  a  room-mate,  were  enough  in  them 
selves  to  win  the  regard  of  the  whole  school. 
But  when  to  these  were  added  the  enthusiastic 
encomiums  of  the  few  who  had  met  her,  Nannie 
Erskine's  position  in  St.  Mary's  was  secure. 

"  It  really  is  a  little  odd,  my  dear,"  said  Helen 
to  her  a  few  days  after,  "  that  the  girls  should 
221 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

all  have  taken  to  you  so.  You  will  not  misun 
derstand  me,  I  know.  But  St.  Mary's  has  the 
name  of  being  so  exclusive  and  unapproachable 
to  any  new-comer  as  to  be  absolutely  unpleasant. 
Every  girl  who  enters  has  to  go  through  a  reg 
ular  siege  of  being  drawn  out  and  examined 
by  the  other  girls — a  much  more  painful  process 
than  that  of  being  examined  by  Miss  Keith. 
You  are  the  first  exception." 

"I  am  sincerely  grateful  to  them/'  laughed 
Nannie.  "  Perhaps  one  reason  was  that  I  didn't 
expect  to  be  anything  but  a  friend  to  all  of  them. 
You  know  I  have  no  sisters  nor  mother,  and 
my  four  brothers  and  my  father  are  all  the 
society  I  have.  I  am  so  used  to  being  petted 
by  them  that  it  never  occurred  to  me  that  the 
girls  might  not  like  me.  Do  you  know,  I  scarce 
ly  know  any  girls.  I  don't  know  how  to  treat 
them,  or  how  I  ought  to  appear  to  them.  Not 
living  in  town,  I  had  no  opportunities." 

"It  is  just  as  well,"  said  Helen.  "You  will 
see  enough  of  them  here.  We  offer  two  hundred 
varieties  for  your  inspection  and  study." 

If  Mary  Hay  ward  had  any  doubts  as  to  where 
Nannie  would  be  placed  in  consequence  of  en 
tering  in  the  middle  of  a  term,  she  was  not  des 
tined  to  remain  long  in  ignorance.  Helen  met 
her  with  the  intelligence  that  Miss  Erskine  was 
to  enter  the  junior  class,  and  had  asked  for 
222 


The  Junior  Prize  at  St.  Mary's 

three  weeks  in  which  to  catch  up  to  where  they 
were  then. 

"Why,  what  is  she  thinking  of?"  exclaimed 
Mary,  incredulously.  "All  the  studies?  She 
can  never  do  it!  And  to  think  of  that  little 
thing  entering  our  class  1" 

"Well,  wait  and  see  if  she  doesn't  do  it," 
said  Helen.  The  startling  news  was  communi 
cated  to  the  other  juniors. 

"If  she  does  it,"  said  Linda,  "I  shall  have 
more  respect  for  her  than  for  any  other  one 
thing  she  could  do." 

"If  she  does  it  she  is  more  than  likely  to 
take  the  prize,"  said  Carrie  Tremaine,  thought 
fully. 

Helen  Van  Dorn  and  Mary  Hayward  looked 
up  quickly,  almost  apprehensively. 

"She  will  stand  an  excellent  chance,"  said 
Mary,  slowly. 

Never  was  one  girl  so  watched  as  was  Nannie 
Erskine  during  those  three  weeks.  She  was 
wonderfully  popular,  and  spent  so  much  of  her 
time  with  the  other  girls  that  they  could  not  see 
how  she  managed  to  study  at  all.  They  suspect 
ed  her  of  getting  up  after  Miss  Anderson  had 
ordered  the  lights  out,  and  "burning  midnight 
oil";  or  of  rising  at  an  unreasonable  hour  in 
the  morning  to  study.  But  Helen,  on  being 
secretly  questioned,  denied  both  rumors. 
223 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

"She  can't  do  it,  then/'  said  Linda.  Helen 
only  smiled. 

Nannie's  admiration  for  Helen  increased 
daily.  Her  fair,  stately  beauty,  her  winning 
manners  and  tender  smiles  were  to  Nannie's 
romantic  fancy  each  emblematic  of  perfection. 

"You  remind  me  of  Elaine,  or  Queen  Guin 
evere,"  she  said.  But  Helen's  beauty  was  the 
least  of  her  attractions.  The  whole  school 
adored  her  for  her  gentleness  and  consideration. 

After  Nannie  came,  so  quickly  did  she  win 
their  good  opinion  that  the  girls  differed  as 
to  which  was  the  best  beloved.  Nannie,  ac 
customed  to  admiration  and  affection  on  all 
sides,  took  it  as  simply  and  naturally  as  a  child, 
utterly  unconscious  that  she  was  fast  becoming 
Helen's  rival.  Helen  saw  it  clearly,  but  no  one 
was  the  wiser;  for  she  kept  the  knowledge  to 
herself,  and  encouraged  Nannie's  love  and  con 
fidence  more  than  ever. 

The  three  weeks  at  length  passed,  and  "the 
new  girl"  had  accomplished  her  task,  and  at 
the  end  of  the  month  took  her  examination  with 
the  rest.  A  buzz  of  genuine  admiration  arose 
from  the  generous-hearted  girls,  as  Miss  Keith 
announced  that  Helen  Van  Dorn,  Mary  Hay- 
ward,  and  Nannie  Erskine  had  passed  a  well- 
nigh  perfect  examination. 

Mary's  face  brightened  as  she  heard  it,  and 
224 


The  Junior  Prize  at  St.  Mary's 

she  turned  and  nodded  her  congratulations  to 
Nannie.  And  no  one  knew,  from  Helen's  calm 
smile,  that  a  tumult  raged  in  her  heart. 

Nannie's  eyes  grew  larger  and  darker  with 
surprise  and  pleasure  as  she  heard  the  report 
and  the  few  quiet  words  of  commendation  from 
Miss  Keith.  She  rushed  up  to  her  room,  with 
out  seeking  the  other  girls,  and  there  Helen 
found  her  a  few  moments  later  in  a  storm  of  tears. 

"My  dear  child!"  she  cried,  in  alarm. 

"  It  is  nothing,"  said  Nannie,  raising  her  head 
and  dashing  the  tears  aside.  "I  always  cry 
when  I'm  happy." 

"Did  that  make  you  happy?"  asked  Helen, 
curiously. 

"Happy!  It's  the  one  thing  I've  desired  and 
worked  for  with  all  my  strength  ever  since  I 
came!"  cried  Nannie,  almost  fiercely.  "  I  should 
have  died  of  shame  if  I  had  not  succeeded." 

"  Why,  you  did  not  appear  to  work  hard.  We 
wondered  how  you  did  it/'  said  Helen,  surprised 
at  her  intensity. 

"  Do  you  think  I  would  have  let  you  see  that 
I  was  striving  for  an  end,  and  then  run  the  risk 
of  having  you  know  I  had  failed  at  last?"  cried 
Nannie,  throwing  back  her  small  head  proudly. 

"But  we  all  knew  what  you  were  doing," 
said  Helen. 

"Yes,  I  know.  But  I  did  not  appear  to  be 
P  225 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

working  very  hard,  and  if  I  had  failed  you  would 
have  said,  'Well,  she  didn't  half  try.'  I  could 
bear  to  be  thought  indolent,  but  not  stupid!" 

"Well,  you  are  the  oddest  girl  I  ever  met," 
said  Helen,  slowly. 

"Not  odd,  when  you  come  to  think  of  it.  But 
you  don't  know  why  I  am  so  anxious  for  success. 
My  brothers  all  did  remarkably  well  at  college, 
and  they  would  be  so  ashamed  of  me  if  I  did  not 
succeed!"  she  said,  passionately.  "You  do  not 
know,"  she  added,  with  a  complete  change  of 
voice  and  manner,  "how  pleased  the  boys  will 
be  when  they  know  what  I  have  done/'  She 
laughed  gleefully,  and  one  would  have  thought 
to  see  her  there,  curled  up  on  the  foot  of  the  bed, 
with  traces  of  tears  still  on  her  cheeks,  that  she 
were  some  beautiful  child,  instead  of  a  junior 
at  St.  Mary's. 

"Have  you  your  essay  for  to-morrow?"  asked 
Helen,  after  a  long  pause. 

"Gracious!  I  forgot  all  about  it!"  cried 
Nannie,  aghast. 

"Perhaps  Miss  Keith  will  excuse  you,  con 
sidering  all  your  extra  work,"  suggested  Helen. 

"I  don't  want  her  to,"  answered  Nannie, 
slipping  off  the  bed  and  preparing  for  action. 
"I'll  have  one  ready." 

"  By  to-morrow  morning  ?    Why,  what's  your 
subject?"  asked  Helen,  incredulously. 
226 


The  Junior  Prize  at  St.  Mary's 

"Yes,  to  your  first;  'French  Women  of  Let 
ters/  to  your  second  question/'  said  Nannie, 
laughing. 

Helen  turned  away  abruptly.  She  would 
have  given  anything  to  be  able  to  ask  right 
there  if  Nannie  intended  to  try  for  the  medal 
at  the  close  of  the  year,  but  she  could  not.  For 
such  was  her  faith  in  her  friend's  powers  that 
she  felt  that  Nannie  had  but  to  enter  the  lists 
and  the  prize  was  won ;  and  she  could  not  bear 
to  know  certainly  that  all  her  own  hard  work 
had  been  for  naught.  She  opened  her  lips 
once,  as  if  to  speak,  but  closed  them  again,  and 
began  to  pace  the  room  nervously.  She  walked 
to  the  window,  and  pressed  her  hands  against 
her  aching  eyes.  The  tears  would  not  be  kept 
back,  and  for  a  moment  her  anger  rose  against 
the  innocent  girl  who  had  so  unconsciously  be 
come  her  rival  in  everything.  But  she  checked 
herself  suddenly,  and  saw,  with  relief,  that 
Nannie  was  studying,  and  had  not  noticed  her 
perturbation.  For,  in  her  secret  heart,  Helen 
knew  she  did  not  deserve  the  adoration  which 
the  school  lavished  upon  her  for  her  generosity 
and  sweetness  of  temper.  She  had  won  her 
reputation  almost  accidentally,  by  her  wonder 
ful  self-control  under  trying  circumstances; 
and  it  was  now  her  chief  aim  to  live  up  to  the 
girls'  opinion  of  her  and  to  deserve  her  high 
227 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

position  in  this  regard,  and  especially  that  of 
Nannie. 

A  prize  at  St.  Mary's  had  never  been  offered 
before,  and  this  was  an  experiment.  If  it  proved 
unsatisfactory,  one  would  never  be  offered  again. 

At  the  close  of  the  year  Miss  Keith  would 
assemble  the  junior  class  and  give  out  a  subject 
— whether  a  different  one  to  each  or  the  same 
to  all,  no  one  knew — and  they  would  then  be 
given  two  hours  in  which  to  write  an  impromptu 
essay  upon  it,  without  leaving  the  room  or  con 
sulting  a  reference.  All  these  essays  would  then 
be  submitted  to  a  committee,  and  the  one  which 
was  in  all  respects  the  best,  most  complete  and 
correct,  would  entitle  the  writer  to  a  gold  medal. 
And  it  was  the  fact  of  its  being  the  first  medal 
from  St.  Mary's  that  made  each  girl  strain 
every  nerve  to\vards  the  final  issue.  It  had  been 
beneficial  so  far  in  the  impetus  it  had  given  to 
study  in  all  directions.  For  no  one  knew  the 
sort  of  subject  likely  to  be  given ;  hence  knowl 
edge  on  every  subject  was  eagerly  sought  for 
and  treasured  up  by  the  whole  class. 

There  were  three  girls  wrho  were  tolerably 
well  matched,  Mary  Hayward,  Linda  Cundiff, 
and  Helen  Van  Dorn.  Each  was  secretly  bent 
upon  winning,  and  yet  theirs  was  a  very  friendly 
rivalry.  Helen  went  calmly  on  her  way,  her 
serene  face  giving  no  hint  of  the  passionate 
228 


The  Junior  Prize  at  St.  Mary's 

eagerness  of  her  desire  for  the  prize.  Only 
Linda  openly  worked  for  it. 

"I've  read  up  everything  I  can  think  of,  in 
cluding  Xenophon's  Memorabilia  of  Socrates, 
and  the  Epithalamion  of  Spenser;  and  at  the 
last  probably  Miss  Keith  will  give  me  '  Gentle 
Spring  '  for  a  subject,  or  '  Beautiful  Snow/ " 
said  Linda,  ruefully.  The  others  laughed. 

"If  I  am  to  get  it,  I'll  get  it— that's  all,"  said 
Mary,  doggedly.  And,  truth  to  tell,  she  had 
deviated  but  little  from  her  usual  course  of 
"digging,"  as  the  girls  called  it. 

"I  suppose  Nannie  Erskine  will  try  for  it — 
won't  she?"  said  Linda. 

"Of  course,"  answered  Mary.  "And  I  must 
say  that  I  would  almost  as  soon  have  her  get 
it  as  to  get  it  myself."  Helen  looked  up  in 
amazement,  half  expecting  to  see  Mary's  usual 
satirical  expression  on  her  face  to  belie  her  last 
words;  but  she  was  evidently  very  much  in 
earnest. 

"I  thought  you  were  anxious  for  the  prize 
yourself,"  said  Helen. 

"I  am.  But  if  that  beautiful  little  Nannie 
Erskine  gets  it,  I'll  be  the  first  one  to  congrat 
ulate  her."  And  Mary's  plain  face  fairly  glow 
ed  with  generosity  and  feeling.  "And  you 
know,  Helen  Van  Dorn,  that  secretly  you  wish 
her  to  win  it  as  much  as  I.  You  are  always  in 
229 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

the  right.     I  sometimes  am  by  accident/'  said 
Mary,  a  little  wistfully. 

"Well,  I  must  say  that  you  are  a  friend  in 
deed/'  she  said  to  Mary. 

"  What  a  revelation  it  would  be  to  those  girls 
to  look  into  my  heart  just  now!"  thought  Helen, 
as  she  hurriedly  made  some  excuse  to  leave 
them.  "Oh,  if  I  could  only  know  what  my 
subject  was  to  be!" 

"I  really  believe/'  said  Linda,  as  Helen  dis 
appeared,  "that  Helen  Van  Dorn  has  the  most 
beautiful  character  I  ever  came  in  contact  with. 
Do  you  see  how  every  one  loves  her?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mary;  "I  divide  my  worship  be 
tween  Nannie  and  Helen." 

Thus  the  weeks  and  months  passed  by,  until 
Easter  drew  near.  The  work  that  year  had 
been  of  the  best,  and  even  Miss  Keith's  keen 
eyes  could  detect  no  unpleasantness  arising 
from  the  contest  for  the  medal.  She  congratu 
lated  herself  upon  the  venture. 

But  one  evening  she  was  alarmed  by  hear 
ing  a  great  outcry  from  the  region  of  Helen 
Van  Dorn's  room,  followed  by  frantic  calls  for 
"Miss  Keith!"  She  hurried  up  the  stairs, 
and  was  met  by  Mary  and  Carrie,  both  in 
tears. 

"Young    ladies!"    exclaimed    Miss    Keith, 
"what  is  the  meaning  of  this?" 
230 


The  Junior  Prize  at  St.  Mary's 

"Oh,  Miss   Keith,"    cried    Mary,   "Nannie 

Erskine— " 

"She's  dead!"  sobbed  Carrie. 

Miss  Keith's  heart  almost  stopped  beating 
when  she  heard  that.  She  found  Nannie  pros 
trate  on  the  floor,  with  Helen  and  Linda  bending 
over  her,  both  crying.  She  pushed  them  aside 
and  placed  her  hand  on  Nannie's  heart.  The 
girls  waited  breathlessly. 

"My  dear  young  ladies,"  said  Miss  Keith, 
almost  vexed  at  being  so  frightened,  "she  has 
only  fainted." 

Mary  Hayward  began  to  sob  hysterically, 
and  Miss  Keith  sent  all  of  them  from  the  room 
but  Helen. 

"I  thought  she  was  dead,"  said  Linda,  while 
Helen  stood  up  with  a  very  white  face  and  helped 
Miss  Keith  lift  Nannie  on  to  the  bed. 

"What  was  the  trouble?"  asked  Miss  Ander 
son,  when  the  principal  came  out  half  an  hour 
later. 

"  Miss  Erskine  had  fainted  and  the  girls  were 
frightened." 

"  But  surely  that  was  not  enough  to  alarm 
the  house,"  said  Miss  Anderson.  "  Others  have 
often  fainted." 

"  This  was  Nannie  Erskine,"  said  Miss  Keith, 
quietly. 

"Ah,  I  see!"  answered  the  other. 
231 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

"You  are  overworking  yourself,  my  dear," 
Miss  Keith  said  to  Nannie  that  evening  when 
she  came  to  see  her  again.  "Miss  Van  Dorn, 
I  think  I  will  rob  you  of  your  room-mate  to 
night  and  put  Miss  Erskine  in  the  little  room 
next  to  mine." 

"'The  Petting  Room/"  said  Helen,  smiling. 

"You  dropped  this,"  she  added,  as  Miss 
Keith  rose  to  go,  handing  her  a  small  Russia- 
leather  book. 

"Dear  me!  How  careless!  That  is  the  Prize 
Book,  with  the  subjects  I  have  selected  for  your 
essays." 

Nannie  looked  up  and  smiled  faintly;  but 
Helen's  face  flushed  suddenly,  and,  although 
the  book  had  left  her  hand,  she  made  a  half- 
step  forward,  as  if  to  take  it  again. 

The  doctor  told  Miss  Keith  that  all  Nannie 
needed  was  quiet,  and  complete  rest  from  study, 
as  her  nerves  were  unstrung  from  overwork. 
So  Helen  was  bereft  of  her  room-mate  for  sev 
eral  days. 

Long  after  the  lights  were  out  at  night,  Helen 
tossed  restlessly,  thinking  of  that  book.  If 
she  could  only  see  it!  Just  one  glimpse  of  it! 
The  intensity  of  her  desire  kept  her  wide  awake 
and  so  excited  that  she  sometimes  wildly  wish 
ed  she  had  never  known  of  its  existence. 

Down-stairs  in  the  "Petting  Room,"  as  the 
232 


The  Junior  Prize  at  St.  Mary's 

girls  called  the  little  blue  chamber  where  dear 
Miss  Keith  occasionally  put  one  of  her  girls, 
little  Nannie  Erskine  lay,  nervously  wakeful, 
starting  at  every  slight  noise,  and  thinking, 
thinking  ceaselessly. 

The  door  into  Miss  Keith's  room  stood  ajar, 
and  she  could  hear  the  regular  breathing  which 
told  of  sleep.  The  door  into  the  hall  was  also 
partly  open,  and  she  could  just  see  across  the 
hall  the  white  knob  of  the  door  belonging  to 
Miss  Keith's  private  study.  Every  night  since 
she  had  been  there  she  had  lain  and  watched 
that  white  knob.  The  great  clock  struck  two. 
She  heard  the  night  watchman  make  his  rounds. 
She  heard  the  faint  echo  of  his  retreating  foot 
steps.  Then  again  was  silence. 

But  what  was  that?  Nannie  thought  she 
heard  some  one  creeping  stealthily  along  the 
hall.  Her  first  thought  was  of  ghosts,  but  she 
dismissed  that  in  favor  of  burglars.  The 
sounds  came  nearer  and  nearer,  until  with  her 
nervousness  she  could  stand  it  no  longer.  She 
slipped  out  of  bed,  trembling  with  fear,  and 
crept  to  the  door.  But  she  could  see  nothing. 
She  could  just  discern  that  white  knob,  gleam 
ing  faintly.  Then  she  heard  a  faint  scratching, 
like  that  of  a  match.  It  seemed  to  be  across 
the  hall.  She  was  on  the  point  of  giving  a 
frantic  scream  for  Miss  Keith,  when  the  match 
233 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

suddenly  flared,  revealing  a  tall,  slender  white 
shape,  and  a  hand  raised  to  shelter  the  flame. 
The  hand  was  small  and  white.  "It  is  one  of 
the  girls,"  thought  Nannie,  with  a  little  gasp 
of  fear.  Then  the  first  sputtering  of  the  match 
settled  into  a  steady  blaze.  A  face  bent  over 
it,  evidently  searching  for  something.  With 
sickening  horror  Nannie  recognized  Helen. 
Nannie  was  riveted  to  the  spot  with  dread  of 
what  was  coming.  She  saw  Helen  turn  the 
knob  of  the  door  and  enter  the  room.  A  pain 
ful  doubt  came  into  her  mind.  All  Miss  Keith's 
private  books  and  records  were  in  her  desk, 
and  the  Prize  Book  among  them.  Nannie 
would  not  believe  it.  Helen  had  left  something, 
and  had  come  to  look  for  it.  Dear  Helen !  She 
would  not  do  such  a  thing!  Hot  tears  rushed 
down  Nannie's  face  as  she  stood  there  fighting 
back  the  thought. 

But  what  was  Helen  doing?  What  if  Miss 
Keith  should  awaken?  But  she  bethought 
herself,  Miss  Keith  was  asleep. 

"If  I  can  creep  into  her  room  and  open  her 
door  without  waking  her,"  thought  Nannie, 
"I  can  see  into  the  study." 

Without  thinking  of  her  own  suspicious  posi 
tion  if  her  teacher  should  waken,  Nannie,  in 
tent  upon  proving  to  herself  Helen's  innocence, 
accomplished  the  feat  in  utter  silence.  But  oh, 
234 


The  Junior  Prize  at  St.  Mary's 

the  misery  of  that  first  glance!  There  stood 
Helen,  in  her  long,  white  wrapper,  holding  a 
fresh  match  over  the  little  red  book.  It  was 
true,  then !  Her  darling  Helen  was  capable  of 
this  awful  thing.  She  closed  the  door  to  shut 
out  the  hateful  sight,  and  made  her  way  back 
to  bed.  She  heard  Helen  come  out,  pause  and 
listen  a  moment,  then  glide  stealthily  up  the 
long  flight  of  stairs.  Fainter  and  fainter  came 
the  rustle  of  trailing  garments,  then — silence. 

In  a  storm  of  tears  she  buried  her  face  in  the 
pillows.  "I  would  as  soon  thought  of  my 
mother  in  heaven  committing  such  a  crime  as 
my  beautiful  Helen \"  she  thought  at  last.  And 
then,  exhausted  by  the  violence  of  her  weeping, 
she  lay  quiet,  and  only  an  occasional  long- 
drawn,  fluttering  breath  told  of  recent  tears. 

And  through  the  rest  of  that  interminable 
night  one  thought  kept  its  place  in  her  brain. 

"What  shall  I  do  about  it?" 

In  justice  to  the  other  girls,  to  say  nothing  of 
herself,  she  ought  to  prevent  unfairness.  But 
to  betray  Helen  into  the  hands  of  even  gentle 
Miss  Keith  Nannie  felt  would  be  a  Judas  -  like 
act.  She  had  been  almost  educated  by  her 
brothers,  and  she  knew  they  would  suffer  tor 
ment  rather  than  betray  a  class-mate.  She 
might  appeal  to  Helen,  but  that  would  be  only 
to  incur  Helen's  dislike,  or  perhaps  cause  her  to 
235 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

abandon  the  contest.  She  might  ask  Miss 
Keith  to  change  the  subjects.  But  that  would 
either  bring  Nannie  herself  under  suspicion  or 
give  a  clew  to  the  real  offender,  or,  worse  still, 
unfairly  cause  Helen  to  lose  the  prize  at  the  very 
moment  of  winning  it.  It  came  into  her  mind 
to  let  things  go  on  just  as  they  would  and  trust 
to  her  own  ability  to  win  the  medal,  even  with 
such  odds  against  her.  But  that  might  fail, 
Helen  would  win,  and  Nannie  be  obliged  to  re 
proach  herself  with  the  thought  that  she  had 
known  of  injustice  yet  had  taken  no  steps  to 
prevent  it. 

In  the  morning,  when  Miss  Keith  came  in, 
Nannie's  cheeks  were  burning  with  fever;  and 
that  was  the  beginning  of  her  illness.  For 
many  days  the  anxious  girls  were  obliged  to 
content  themselves  with  mere  bulletins  from 
the  sick-room.  "Nannie's  fever  is  higher  to 
day;"  or,  "Nannie  rested  better  last  night." 
Mary  spent  half  her  time  hovering  near  Nannie's 
door,  waiting  for  news  of  her.  Then  she  grew 
better.  But  it  was  no  wonder,  with  all  she  had 
to  think  about,  that  her  recovery  was  slow.  She 
finally  decided,  however,  that  the  best  course 
would  be  to  speak  to  Helen,  as  the  issue  \vould 
probably  only  concern  herself,  inasmuch  as 
she  alone  would  meet  with  unpleasantness. 

When,  at  last,  she  was  allowed  to  see  the  girls, 
236 


The  Junior  Prize  at  St.  Mary's 

they  found  her  looking  like  a  little,  shadowy 
ghost.  Mary  came  in  first,  and  her  eyes  filled 
with  tears  as  she  saw  the  thin  little  hand  put 
out  in  eager  welcome. 

"Your  Royal  Highness/'  she  cried,  with 
feigned  gayety,  "  make  haste,  and  grant  your 
humble  subjects  the  boon  of  your  daily  pres 
ence  among  us  once  more  \"  And  Nannie 
laughed  and  said  she  would. 

Then  she  saw  Helen  and  Linda  together, 
and  it  seemed  to  Nannie  that  Helen  would  not 
meet  her  eyes. 

It  was  a  week  after  Nannie  had  resumed  her 
room  with  Helen  before  she  could  bring  herself 
to  speak  on  the  one  subject  of  the  prize.  But 
after  dinner,  one  evening,  Nannie  was  seated 
in  the  big  arm-chair  that  Miss  Keith  had  sent 
to  her  room  after  her  illness,  and  Helen  was 
standing  by  the  open  window,  for  the  day  had 
been  mild,  looking  out  into  the  twilight. 

"Helen,  do  you  believe  the  'Petting  Room' 
is  haunted?"  asked  Nannie,  suddenly,  from 
her  obscurity. 

"Of  course  not,  dear.  But  don't  talk  about 
it.  I  can't  bear  to  hear  that  room  spoken  of, 
since  you  were  so  ill  there." 

"Oh,  dear!"  thought  Nannie,  in  dismay,"  how 
can  I  say  it,  after  all?"  But  after  a  long  pause 
she  went  on,  slowly : 

237 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

"The  reason  I  asked  you  was  because  the 
third  night  I  slept  there  I  saw  a  ghost."  Helen 
started  violently,  then  leaned  against  the  win 
dow-pane  to  hide  her  trembling. 

"It  came  down-stairs,  all  robed  in  white,  and 
struck  a  match  at  the  door  of  the  study." 

"Did  you  see  its  face?"  asked  Helen,  with 
difficulty. 

"Yes,  I  saw  the  face  distinctly.  It  went  in 
and  sat  down  at  Miss  Keith's  desk  and  took 
out  the  Prize  Book — " 

"For  the  love  of  Heaven,  Nannie  Erskine, 
don't  add  another  word !  As  if  I  had  not  enough 
to  carry  in  the  knowledge  of  my  own  guilt,  but 
you — you  should  have  seen  it!" 

She  sank  down  in  a  little  heap  just  where 
she  stood,  crying  piteously.  Nannie  went  over 
and  put  her  arms  around  her. 

"Don't  touch  me  !"  cried  Helen.  "I  am  not 
fit  to  be  seen  in  your  company!" 

"Hush,  Helen!  I  love  you,  dear,  and  I  will 
not  turn  against  you.  Remember,  I  have 
known  it  all  along." 

Helen  sat  up  suddenly  and  looked  into  the 
beautiful,  pitying  face  of  her  friend. 

"  You  knew  all  this  while  you  were  ill,  yet  it 
did  not  affect  you?" 

"If  you  mean  to  ask  me  if  I  talked  of  it  in 
my  delirium,  I  will  say  '  No/  for  I  asked  Miss 
238 


The  Junior  Prize  at  St.  Mary's 

Keith  what  I  said/'  returned  Nannie,  eva 
sively. 

"I  did  not  mean  that" — nevertheless  she 
appeared  relieved — "but  was  it  this,  then,  that 
made  you  so  ill?  No  one  knows  the  reason." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Nannie,  simply. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear  1"  sobbed  Helen; 
"what  have  I  done?  If  you  had  died — I"  A 
strong  shudder  shook  her.  She  seemed  so  ut 
terly  cast  down  that  Nannie  did  not  know  what 
to  say.  This  was  not  what  she  had  expected. 

Then  Helen  stood  up  wearily  and,  looking 
but  very  little  like  her  usual  stately  self,  said : 

"  If  you  would  leave  me  to  myself  for  a  while," 
she  murmured,  brokenly.  And  Nannie  only 
kissed  her  and  took  her  books  up  to  Mary  Hay- 
ward's  room. 

Helen  came  for  her  in  about  an  hour. 

"I  have  begun  to  pack  my  things,"  she  said, 
"and  I  shall  leave  to-morrow.  I  want  to  tell 
you  now  that  I  am  going  to  tell  Miss  Keith." 

"Oh,  Helen — must  you?"  cried  Nannie,  well 
knowing  what  a  struggle  it  must  have  been  to 
make  the  proud  girl  willing  so  to  humiliate 
herself. 

"  It  is  the  only  way,"  answered  Helen.     Then 

she  said,   sharply:    "I  wonder  that  you  will 

speak  to  me,  knowing  what  I  have  done.     A 

month  ago  I  would  have  scorned  even  you  if 

239 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

you   had   been    guilty   of    one -half    the    dis 
honesty!" 

"No,  you  wouldn't,"  said  Nannie,  reaching 
up  to  put  her  arm  around  Helen's  neck.  Then 
she  went  down  to  Miss  Keith. 

Nannie  could  not  bear  to  look  around  the 
room  and  see  Helen's  things  all  laid  out  so  care 
fully  for  packing.  She  wandered  restlessly 
about,  and  finally  started  for  Mary's  room  again, 
but  was  met  by  a  servant  with  a  message  from 
Miss  Keith.  She  went  down  and  found  her 
standing  with  her  hand  on  Helen's  bowed  head, 
but  smiling  through  her  tears. 

"My  dear,"  she  said  to  Nannie,  "I  wish  to 
consult  you.  I  am  not  in  the  least  inclined  to 
extenuate  Miss  Van  Dorn's  conduct,  but,  as 
the  affair  stands  to-day,  I  think  you  both  did 
right.  I  will  leave  the  issue  with  you  now, 
since  you  are  a  contestant  also." 

Helen  raised  her  head.  "I  think  the  whole 
class  ought  to  know,"  she  said. 

"There  is  no  necessity  for  that,"  said  Miss 
Keith. 

"I  think,"  said  Nannie,  gravely,  "that  Helen 
has  been  punished  enough  by  her  own  con 
science,  and  I  suggest  that  you  change  all 
the  subjects  and  let  everything  go  on  as 
usual.  It  was  a  great  temptation,  Miss 
Keith." 

240 


The  Junior  Prize  at  St.  Mary's 

"Still  you  would  not  have  done  it,"  said 
Helen,  quickly. 

"You  do  not  know  that/'  answered  Nannie, 
smiling  a  little. 

"  It  is  too  light  a  sentence,"  said  Helen.  "  The 
others  ought  to  be  told." 

"No,"  said  Nannie,  firmly,  "they  ought  not. 
What  good  would  it  do?" 

Miss  Keith  nodded  approvingly. 

But  they  could  not  persuade  Helen  to  adopt 
their  view  of  the  case,  and  it  was  on  account  of 
her  utter  and  complete  abasement  that  both 
were  so  inclined  to  leniency. 

It  was  not  until  the  day  before  the  contest 
that  Helen  promised  to  try  for  the  medal.  Each 
girl  was  on  the  qui  vive,  and  there  was  a  breath 
less  silence  as  they  took  their  places  and  wait 
ed  for  Miss  Keith  to  give  out  the  subjects. 

Then  came  two  hours  of  the  hardest  work  they 
had  ever  done.  Then  came  a  period  of  anxious 
waiting,  with  the  whole  school  assembled  to 
hear  the  result.  Finally  Miss  Keith  came  out 
half  laughing. 

"It  is  very  odd,"  she  said.  "There  are  three 
complete  and  perfect  essays ;  but  each  member 
of  the  committee  thinks  differently  from  the 
other  two."  The  girls  laughed. 

"  It's  Helen,  Nannie,  and  Mary/'  they  whis 
pered. 

Q  241 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

"  Silence,  young  ladies,  if  you  please  !  The 
names  of  the  three  writers  are  Miss  Erskine, 
Miss  Hayward,  and  Miss  Cundiff." 

The  girls  all  looked  at  Helen,  but  she  was 
smiling  brightly. 

"Mine  wasn't  finished,  girls,"  she  whispered, 
and  she  reached  for  Nannie's  hand  and  held  it 
tightly. 

But  Miss  Keith  went  on :  "I  called  in  Miss 
Anderson,  by  the  consent  of  the  committee,  and 
she  has  awarded  the  medal  to  Miss  Erskine." 

A  storm  of  enthusiastic  applause  from  two 
hundred  girls  fairly  shook  the  room,  and  in 
creased  in  volume  as  Miss  Keith  placed  the 
medal  around  Nannie's  neck  and  bent  down 
and  kissed  her. 

"Nannie,"  whispered  Helen,  in  answer  to 
the  reproachful  glance  of  her  friend,  "I  could 
not  have  been  happy  if  I  had  done  otherwise." 


A  Pigeon -Blood  Ruby 


A  Pigeon -Blood  Ruby 


Time — Sunday  evening.      Frances  Van   Kirk    seated 
with  a  photograph  and  a  small  jewel-box  in  lap. 

HE  speaks :  "I  wonder  if  a  woman 
ought  to  be  in  love  with  the  man  she 
marries !  I  am  heretic  enough  to  be 
lieve  that  she  ought  not.  If  I  were 
in  love  I  should  not  be  able  to  summon  my 
reason  to  array  all  the  advantages  I  am  to  derive 
from  my  marriage — to  stand  them  all  up  in  a 
row  to  look  at  and  admire  and  to  assure  myself 
that  I  shall  do  well  to  take  them  and  their  owner, 
and  to  leave  entirely  out  of  the  question  the  fact 
that  I  care  less  than  nothing  for  him. 

"  I  am  glad  I  don't  love  him.  Love  seems  a 
little  vulgar  to  me  when  I  think  of  Mr.  Finch. 
Besides,  I  should  be  ashamed  of  myself  if  I  were 
in  love  with — him !  I  hope  I  still  have  my  for 
mer  good  taste.  My  taste  is  not  polluted  even 
if  I  have  decided  to  marry  him.  I  have  always 
245 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

flattered  myself  that  I  knew  nice  men  and  that 
I  brought  out  their  good  points. 

"  I  wonder  if  Mr.  Finch  has  any  good  points 
to  bring  out!  Here  he  is.  Not  handsome — no. 
His  best  friend  could  not  call  him  handsome. 
I  don't  like  his  mouth.  Those  thin  lips  look 
as  if  they  could  be  cruel.  He  won't  beat  me. 
He  will  be  sarcastic.  That  long  nose  will  go 
up  at  the  corners  and  look  more  pointed  and 
ugly,  and  those  lines  at  the  side  will  deepen 
into  furrows,  and  dear  Mr.  Finch  won't  be  pret 
ty  to  look  at  nor  pretty  to  hear,  I  can  assure 
you. 

"  If  I  were  in  love  with  him,  his  sarcasm  could 
hurt  me.  As  it  is,  I  shall  shrug  my  shoulders 
and  turn  my  back  on  him  until  he  cools  down. 
I  hate  a  man  with  a  temper.  I've  enough  for  a 
whole  family. 

"  No,  he  is  not  handsome.  He  is  not  good- 
tempered.  Has  he  anything  to  recommend  him 
to  a  woman?  Yes  —  one.  He  is  rich.  Rich 
beyond  the  dreams  of  avarice,  and  he  knows 
it  and  counts  on  it  to  buy  him  friends  and — 
even  a  wife.  I  feel  as  if  I  were  a  bale  of  cotton 
or  a  carload  of  pig-iron  when  I  think  of  it.  He 
thinks  his  money  will  compensate  for  the  lack 
of  family  and  the  lack  of  breeding  and  that  it 
will  even  get  him  into  heaven.  Well,  it  will 
almost  do  that.  I  suppose  heaven  is  the  only 
246 


A  Pigeon-Blood  Ruby 

place  where  money  will  not  buy  an  entrance 
into  best  circles. 

"  I  wonder  if  he  loves  me.  He  says  he  does, 
but  it  makes  me  creepy  to  hear  him  talk  about 
it.  Love!  What  does  a  man  who  goes  by  the 
name  of  Finch  and  has  such  a  colorless  per 
sonality  know  about  so  beautiful  a  thing  as 
love!  I  am  sure  I  wish  he  wouldn't  talk  about 
it,  or  try  to  pump  up  any  of  the  requisite  emo 
tion.  I  wish  he  were  even  more  cold-blooded 
about  it  than  he  is. 

"  I  am  unable  to  soften  the  matter  or  to  throw 
any  glamour  over  it  when  I  sit  here  and  think 
about  him  and  the  life  I  must  live  if  I  marry 
him.  All  my  sophistry  takes  wings  and  leaves 
me  to  face  the  cold,  bare  truth. 

"  I  wonder  if  I  shall  be  actively  or  passively 
unhappy?  Shall  I  just  miss  in  a  general  way 
all  the  beauty  and  holiness  of  the  love  I  have 
lost,  or  will  it  take  form  and  frame  a  face  and 
speak  to  me  with  a  voice  that  will  wring  tears 
from  my  heart? 

"  If  a  woman's  heart  is  filled  with  love  for  a 
man,  it  makes  it  so  tender  that  he  has  doubly 
the  power  to  wound  by  a  word  or  neglect.  Mr. 
Finch  could  never  hurt  me.  If  he  neglected 
me,  I  should  be  glad.  If  he  attempted  to  coerce 
me,  I  should  hate  him.  If  he  tried  to  make 
me  love  him,  I  should  want  to  kill  him. 
247 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

"  I  don't  know  why  I  have  suddenly  come  to 
feel  things  so  poignantly  to-night.  I  have  been 
lending  myself  to  this  thing  for  months,  and  it 
did  not  hurt.  I  have  felt  so  cold  and  apathetic 
that  it  gave  me  courage  to  go  on.  But  the  whole 
thing  came  to  a  crisis  to-day,  and  now  I  must 
face  it  and  look  clear  down  the  vista  of  the  years 
to  the  bitter  end.  The  question  is — can  I  do  it? 

"  Where  are  you,  Mr.  Finch?  Come  out  from 
your  hiding-place  and  let  me  look  you  in  the 
eyes — my  future  lord  and  master — my — hus 
band! 

"Pah!  What  an  ugly  word  husband  is  un 
less  it  means  the  right  man ! 

"  Here  he  is !  A  sleek-looking  individual  with 
his  thin  hair  neatly  plastered  down  as  if  it  were 
glued  there.  I  don't  know  why  I  hate  the  looks 
of  his  hair,  which  always  suggests  to  my  mind 
the  idea  of  unpleasant  things  in  bottles,  unless 
it  is  that  Joe's  hair  is  so  thick  and  unruly.  I 
dare  say  he  would  be  glad  if  he  ever  could  get 
it  to  wear  this  meek  and  unctuous  aspect.  But 
Joe's — well,  Joe's  hair  looks  as  if  he  played 
football!  I  never  cared  much  for  football  my 
self,  except  as  a  fad.  It  is  so  dangerous  it 
makes  me  feel  faint  to  watch  it.  And  I  wouldn't 
let  Joe  play — that  is,  if  I  had  anything  to  say 
about  him,  which,  of  course,  I  haven't.  Still, 
it  would  be  some  satisfaction  to  know  that  if  he 
248 


A  Pigeon-Blood  Ruby 

did  play  he  could  kill  all  the  other  fellows 
instead  of  letting  them  kill  him.  Mr.  Finch 
couldn't  kill  anybody.  Not  that  I  am  selecting 
a  husband  for  his  murderous  capabilities,  but 
it  would  be  a  satisfaction  to  know  that  if  a  foot 
pad  attacked  him  he  could  defend  himself.  I 
believe  if  I  said  'Burglars'  to  Mr.  Finch  he 
would  crawl  under  the  table.  But,  then,  Mr. 
Finch  could  hire  an  army  to  patrol  the  streets 
in  front  of  his  house — our  house,  I  mean,  for 
I  shall  be  in  it — and  Joe  is  so  poor  that  he  would 
have  to  do  his  own  patrolling.  He  will  have 
to  protect  his  wife  with  his  own  right  arm,  and 
work  for  her  with  his  own  strong  hands.  We 
won't  have  to  do  anything  so  plebeian — or  so 
beautiful. 

"There,  what  did  I  say?  I  was  right.  If  I 
were  in  love  I  couldn't  reason.  The  idea  of 
my  ever  coming  to  the  point  of  thinking  work 
beautiful.  When  I  hate  to  work — alone,  I 
mean.  It  doesn't  seem  so  hard  when  I  think 
of  working — or  rather  doing  things  for  Joe. 
Whenever  I  see  him,  I  want  to  do  something  for 
him.  He  is  fighting  against  so  many  odds, 
and  he  is  so  big  and  brave  about  it,  and  never 
complains  and  never  seems  discouraged.  And 
he  is  working  alone,  and  with  nothing  in  pros 
pect  to  work  for,  except  to  win.  Poor  Joe. 
He  never  will  have  money.  He  can't  keep  it. 
249 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

He  never  will  be  successful,  but  people  will 
know  him  and  talk  about  him  even  if  he  loses, 
because  he  is  making  such  a  brave  fight. 

"I  am  not  brave.  I  like  success  and  ease 
and  luxury.  Everything  that  I  like  and  must 
have  takes  money  —  heaps  of  money  —  and  no 
body  has  so  much  as  I  shall  need,  except  Mr. 
Finch. 

"  How  Joe  will  despise  me  when  he  hears  of  it ! 
I  sha'n't  see  him.  I  shall  avoid  him  until  I  have 
got  so  used  to  my  luxury  that  I  find  I  couldn't 
do  without  it.  Then  some  day,  quite  unex 
pectedly,  I  shall  meet  him,  and  he  will  look  at 
me — and  by  that  time  I  shall  not  care. 

"  How  will  he  look  at  me?  Will  it  be  a  scorn 
ful  or  contemptuous  look,  such  as  most  men 
would  give,  because  I  had  the  bad  taste  to  prefer 
some  one  else?  No,  he  never  puts  himself 
first.  It  will  not  be  that.  Will  it  be  a  look  of 
aversion,  as  if  he  could  not  bear  to  see  me?  No, 
he  cares  too  much  for  me  for  that.  Why  do 
I  conjure  up  such  impossibilities  when  I  know 
just  how  he  will  lean  forward  and  look  into  my 
eyes  with  all  love  and — yes,  pity  in  his  own- 
pity  because  he  will  know  what  I  am  suffering 
and  what  a  price  I  have  paid  for  my  empty  glory. 
How  great  will  my  liveries  and  my  jewels  and 
my  gorgeousness  seem  beside  that  look  which, 
if  I  meet  it,  will  drag  the  soul  out  of  me  and 
250 


A  Pigeon-Blood  Ruby 

let  Joe  into  my  secret  as  plainly  as  if  I  had 
reached  out  my  arms  to  him  in  a  vain  appeal! 

"  Oh,  why  do  I  think  of  such  things?  It 
is  because  it  is  Sunday.  I  hate  Sundays!  I 
hate  the  way  the  wind  howls  at  those  windows. 
I  hate  the  falling  of  the  leaves  and  the  bare 
branches  and  the  dying  of  all  green  things  that 
go  with  summer  and  life.  I  always  think  of 
Joe  on  Sundays.  I  wonder  why  Sunday  nights 
always  bring  to  a  woman  thoughts  of  the  man 
she  loves  and  can't  marry — won't  marry,  I  mean 
— no,  can't  marry.  It  isn't  that  I  won't  marry 
Joe.  I  can't  marry  him.  I  can't  bring  myself 
to  it.  Sunday  is  the  hardest  day  of  the  week 
to  me.  That  is  \vhy  I  always  plan  to  make 
it  so  full  that  I  can't  think.  If  Mr,  Finch  had 
kept  his  engagement  to-night,  I  should  have  ac 
cepted  him.  He  didn't  know  that  or  he  would 
have  come.  He  said  he  was  too  ill  to  come. 
I  hate  a  man  who  is  always  falling  ill.  He  sent 
this  ring  instead.  It  was  not  very  refined  of 
him,  but  then  Mr.  Finch's  wTays  are  not  alwrays 
those  which  'mark  the  caste  of  Vere  de  Vere.' 
If  I  keep  it,  we  are  engaged.  If  I  send  it  back 
— why — but  I  shall  not  send  it  back.  That 
middle  stone  is  a  pigeon-blood  ruby. 

"Dear  Joe!  The  only  present  he  ever  gave 
me  was  this  penny — cut  in  half — that  I  wear. 
No,  I  forgot.  I  took  it  off  long  ago  and  hid  it 
251 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

where  I  could  not  find  it  easily.  I  wonder  what 
I  did  with  it.  (Searches.)  Here  it  is.  When 
he  went  away  I  wanted  to  give  it  back  to  him, 
but  he  said,  'No.  Keep  it.  If  you  ever  change 
your  mind  and  want  me  to  come  back,  just  send 
me  your  half  and  I'll  know,  and  I'll  come,  if 
it's  across  the  world.' 

"  How  easy  it  would  be  to  slip  it  in  this  enve 
lope — so — and  write  Joe's  name  across  the  back 
of  it — so — and  put  a  stamp  on  it — so !  I  wonder 
if  two  cents  would  carry  it?  Yes,  I  think  it 
would.  A  half-penny  is  very  light — very  light. 
How  easy  it  would  be  to  send  it !  How  hard  to 
live  up  to  afterwards !  But  would  it  be  so  hard 
— if  it  were  with  Joe?  Didn't  Joe's  face  always 
light  up  the  darkest  days,  and  didn't  Joe's 
presence  cheer  me  when  I  was  the  most  alone, 
if  he  but  presented  himself  in  the  doorway  and 
looked  at  me  out  of  his  kind  eyes?  Oh,  but  Joe 
glorified  the  plainness  and  grayness  of  life  and 
made  the  very  atmosphere  luminous. 

"  I  am  weak  and  foolish  to  think  of  such  things 
now  that  I  have  set  my  face  steadfastly  against 
them.  With  all  the  gilt  and  tinsel  that  Mr. 
Finch  can  put  into  my  life,  it  is  madness  in  me 
to  look  back  at  the  shining  pathway  that  Joe's 
honest  love  made  for  my  feet. 

"What  a  weak,  pitiful  thing  I  am,  anyway! 
I  have  always  held  my  head  so  high  and  never 
252 


A  Pigeon-Blood  Ruby 

stooped  to  coquette  or  trifle  with  men's  love  the 
way  other  girls  do,  counting  it  beneath  me,  and 
waiting  till  the  one  man  came  whom  I  meant 
to  marry.  I  set  my  ideal  and  laid  my  ambitious 
plans  and  never  swerved — and  for  what?  To 
step  down  now  to  the  highest  bidder.  Oh,  who 
knows  the  private  demon  who  dwells,  side  by 
side  with  one's  good  angel,  in  the  heart  of  a 
woman  like  me!  Does  any  one  dream  of  the 
tumult  in  my  heart  when  I  carry  such  a  proud 
front!  Who  can  tell  what  is  going  on  in  the 
heart  of  any  woman  who  is  making  up  her  mind 
to  marry? 

"I  said  to  a  man  last  week,  in  the  sudden, 
fierce  bitterness  of  my  soul, '  Do  men  and  wom 
en  ever  marry  from  a  belief  that  they  are  real 
izing  the  grand  passion  of  their  lives?'  And 
something  in  my  tone  must  have  stirred  him 
to  a  sudden,  unlooked-for  honesty,  for  he  gave 
me  a  look  as  if  he  read  my  soul,  and  he  said, 
'Men  do — always!' 

"My  eyes  dropped  before  his.  I  did  not  want 
him  to  see — although  he  is  only  a  friend.  He 
is  one  of  those  men  whom  women  trust  because 
he  understands  them. 

"I  turned  away  and  thought  what  a  blessed 
thing  it  is  that  men  cannot  read  the  hearts  of 
the  women  they  are  going  to  marry.  I  some 
times  complain  because  men  are  not  constituted 
253 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

to  understand  women  better  and  because  they 
blunder  and  are  blind.  But  it  is  a  heavenly 
thing  that  it  is  so,  and  I  suppose  God  made  it  so 
with  a  purpose. 

"  I  know  so  many  women  who  carry  an  ache 
in  their  hearts,  which  their  husbands  never  sus 
pect  ;  sometimes  for  a  love  they  have  lost ;  some 
times  for  one  that  never  came.  Sometimes, 
like  mine,  for  one  they  dared  not  take. 

"I  am  glad  Mr.  Finch  cannot  see  into  my 
heart  to  -  night.  But  I  am  more  glad  that  Joe 
cannot  —  Joe,  because  he  would  want  me, 
and  Mr.  Finch,  because  he  would  not  want 
me. 

"Dear  Joe!  Why  couldn't  it  have  been  you 
who  gave  me  this  ring,  with  this  beautiful  red 
stone  in  it,  and  why  couldn't  it  have  been  you 
who  was  coming  to-morrow  for  my  answer? 
Dear  Joe! 

"I  might  as  well  face  the  fact.  Mr.  Finch 
bores  me,  repels  me,  sickens  me.  If  he  had  the 
right  to  come  in  at  that  door  and  walk  across 
this  room  and  stoop  over  my  chair,  and  I  had 
to  sit  still  and  let  him  touch  me  and  not  scream 
or  strike  him  for  daring  to  lay  his  hand  on  me, 
I  think  I  should  die! 

"  And  yet — outside  the  door,  outside  the  house 
— people  would  say — oh,  they  would  say  all 
the  things  I  want  them  to,  and  envy  me  and 
254 


A  Pigeon-Blood  Ruby 

copy  my  clothes  and — Joe?    Joe  would  say — • 
nothing. 

"  What  was  that  poem  he  read  me  once? 

'  '  Alas  when  sighs  are  traders'  lies 
And  heart' s-ease  eyes  and  violet  eyes 

Are  merchandise  I 

O  purchased  lips  that  kiss  with  painl 
O  cheeks,  coin-spotted  with  smirch  and  stain! 

0  trafficked  hearts  that  break  in  twain  1 

— And  yet,  what  wonder  at  my  sister's  crime? 
So  hath  Trade  withered  up  Love's  sinewy  prime. 
Men  love  not  women  as  in  olden  time. 
Now  comes  a  suitor  with  sharp  prying  eye, 
Says,  "  Here,  you  lady,  if  you'll  sell  I'll  buy : 
Come,  heart  for  heart — a  trade!  What?  Weeping?  Why?' 
Shame  on  such  wooer's  dapper  mercery! 

1  would  my  lover,  kneeling  at  my  feet 

In  humble  manliness  should  say,  "  Oh,  sweet, 
I  know  not  if  thy  heart  my  heart  will  greet. 
I  ask  not  if  thy  love  my  love  can  meet. 
Whate'er  thy  worshipful  soft  tongue  shall  say 
I'll  kiss  thine  answer,  be  it  yea  or  nay. 
I  do  but  know  I  love  thee,  and  I  pray 
To  be  thy  knight  until  my  dying  day." 
Woe  him  that  cunning  trades  in  hearts  contrives  1 
If  men  wooed  larger,  larger  were  our  lives, 
And  wooed  they  nobler,  won  they  nobler  wives.' 

"  Ah,  Joe  repeated  that  to  me  once  because  he 
said  that  was  my  attitude.  I  don't  know  why 
he  said  that.  I  don't  know  why  he  should 
have  thought  me  capable  of  lofty  sentiments 
like  those  unless  I  had  been  betrayed  into  ex- 
255 


Sir  John  and  the  American  Girl 

pressing  something  of  the  uplifted  state  of 
mind  I  always  rose  to  when  I  was  with 
him. 

"  That  was  the  trouble.  It  was  so  easy  to  rise 
to  a  higher  plane  when  he  was  here  that  he 
thought  me  greater  than  I  was.  He  appealed 
to  the  best  in  me  always.  My  good  angel  came 
out  of  her  own  accord  at  his  approach,  and  then 
poor,  dear  Joe  went  away  thinking  I  was  a  saint. 
He  never  knew  the  demon  of  unrest  and  am 
bition  and  vanity  which  fought  his  influence 
step  by  step,  until  finally  a  devil  dressed  all 
in  red  came  and  flashed  this  red  stone  before 
my  eyes,  and  I  have  put  Joe  and  his  great,  kind 
love  behind  me  forever. 

"'If  men  wooed  nobler,  won  they  nobler 
wives/  he  used  to  say. 

"Yet  I  have  proved  that  untrue.  Surely  he 
wooed  me  nobly  and  what  did  I  do?  I  wouldn't 
rise  to  his  plane.  I  wouldn't  be  as  noble  as  he 
thought  me.  I  laughed  and  hurt  him,  and  he 
never  reproached  me.  He  always  said  I  was 
better  than  I  allowed  people  to  see.  He  always 
believed  in  me  and  defended  me  even  against 
my  own  actions  and  my  own  words,  and  loved 
me  beyond  any  other  love  I  ever  have  known. 
Oh,  Joe  ! 

"  Hark  !  There  are  wheels.  They  are  stop 
ping  here.  (Runs  and  looks  out.)  It  is  after 
256 


A  Pigeon-Blood  Ruby 

nine  o'clock.     Who  can  it  be?     It  is  Mr.  Finch. 
Oh,  what  shall  I  do? 

"  If  only  it  had  been  Joe!  I  wonder  if  I  dare? 
Well,  why  not?  He  would  come  if  I  sent  for 
him.  And  if  it  were  Joe  !  If  only  Joe  were 
coming  for  his  answer!" 

(She  places  Mr.  Finch's  ring  in  its  box,  and 
seals  the  envelope  containing  Joe's  half-penny.) 
She  calls : 

"Ellen,  take  that  to  Mr.  Finch  and  say  that 
I   cannot    see    him.     And — Ellen,    would   you 
mind  mailing  this  letter  for  me  to-night?    It 
is  very  important.     Yes,  to-night!" 
R 


THE  END 


BY  RICHARD  HARDING  DAVIS 


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